


Obscuro

by pandarave12



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Crossover, M/M, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 22:04:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 54,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandarave12/pseuds/pandarave12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock Holmes is rumored to be the next Harry Potter (or Voldemort) and where John Watson, a normal Hogwarts student, might not seem so normal in the presence of a certain boy genius.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in fanfiction.net. Moved it to archive for better formatting but I will still continue it in ff.net. I apologize in advance for grammatical mistakes, spelling errors, etc. English is not my native language as I live in a land full of bears and crocodiles...Cheers.

For Sherlock Holmes, everything began the moment he was born.

No one had anticipated that things would become so hectic, of course. Mycroft had been born without a problem. He had cried little when the matron held him in her arms, and had barely made a sound weeks after his birth. Mycroft had assumed his little sister would be just like him: smart, quiet, and very serious.

All of his assumptions were proven wrong.

He did not have a sister. Instead, he had a wrinkled, rosy-skinned creature that his mother told him was his little brother. She was actually shouting it as the baby, now washed and wrapped in a dark blue blanket, was screaming in her arms, his little limbs flailing as if he wanted to hit everyone around him. And perhaps he did because even though the matron had told him the baby still wouldn't be able to see, it seemed as if his brother was glaring at all of them. He had Father's eyes, only they were not cold. They burned with fury.

"You can touch him," his mother said, handing the baby to the matron who looked as if she would rather battle with a dragon than deal with his brother. Mycroft could not help but share her feelings. Still, he put on a brave face and held out his arms. This proved to be a mistake because as soon as the baby was placed in his care, his screams escalated until Mycroft was forced to drop him to cover his ears. Thankfully, he landed on the mattress, unharmed, but still screaming.

And this was when the lights went out.

The darkness lasted for two minutes in which the matron, panicking about the baby, accidentally knocked Mycroft to the ground. Later, an owl would drop by with a letter from the Ministry, informing the Holmeses that the blackout had not only happened in their home, but had also been experienced by most of London. This letter was followed by a representative, a second in command of the Minister of Magic, who wanted to take his brother away. Later, their father would roughly escort the politician out of the house, threatening him that he would curse him if he ever proposed the idea again. And much later, when Mycroft woke up to a quiet but still scowling Sherlock, he would find letters from all twenty wizarding schools sitting on the dining table, all of which were addressed to one Sherlock Carlton Holmes, wishing him a happy birthday.

* * *

For John Watson, everything began on the twenty-fourth of July.

It was a Friday morning, cold and cloudy just the way he liked it. John generally liked Fridays. Fridays meant no school tomorrow which, for an eleven-year-old who disliked his peers but pretended to like them to survive in such an environment, was heaven. But as it was the summer, John needn't worry about. During the summer break, Fridays meant he could play rugby with some of the boys in the neighbourhood. Fridays meant he could go downtown to the arcades. Fridays also meant that he could go and visit his father.

His father lived in the town next to theirs with his older sister Harry. He and his mother had split up when John was five, and they were not on speaking terms. She had forced his father and sister out of the house when Harry, age eight at the time, began to exhibit strange behaviour. It was not that she was rebellious (this would come later). It was because she somehow made strange things happen without meaning to. It had all been very weird to John until his father took them aside and explained that he was terribly sorry he had kept it so long, but he was a wizard and it appeared, Harry was also magical, like him. John had not believed it at first but when a week later, his father and his sister moved away, John finally allowed the truth to sink in. His mother, who had always been conservative, had not taken the news well.

"Don't let them turn you into one of them, John," she often told him whenever he came back from his father's place.

John did not think he could, even if he wanted to. He had never made something act the way it shouldn't, not like Harry who, at age nine, had somehow turned the television into an aquarium, complete with several goldfish and one little toy diver tucked behind a plastic treasure chest. He had asked his father why this was so and he had explained that it was like Punnet's squares. "My parents weren't magical," he'd told John. "It skips some generations." Then he'd looked at him pityingly, as if waiting for John to burst into tears and ask why he couldn't do the things his sister could.

But John never longed for the world his father and his sister lived in. It wasn't that it wasn't amazing. They had taken him to a place called Diagon Alley when Harry bought her school things. John hadn't been able to stop looking at everything. He had poked and prodded to the annoyance of an assistant in a bookshop called Flourish and Blotts. The wizarding world was absolutely fascinating, and John had been tempted more than once to brag about to it to one of his classmates. He wondered often if any of them knew that magic really existed and how many wizards and witches were strolling the streets with non-magic people like him.

But what kept him from longing for it was his mother. John loved his mother despite her prejudiced thoughts towards her daughter and ex-husband. He liked how she would knit him a new sweater every year and how she would brush back his hair and tell him that he would make a good doctor one day. He liked that she encouraged his dreams to become a doctor like his uncle, to the point that she even bought him some second hand medical books. And John did not want her to look at him the way she looked at Harry, her eyes filled with a combination of disappointment and bitterness. He did not want to look at her the way Harry did: hurt, anger, _hatred._ John loved his father, his sister, and his mother. But his father already had Harry and John did not really want to leave his mother alone. She needed him more.

His mother was not an awful person. After all, she still allowed him to visit them, albeit grudgingly. She would even give him fare for the bus, though it would be handed with a warning. It was merely a squeeze of his hand but it went unspoken. Don't let them tempt you were the words.

So he got the surprise of his life when, upon entering the living room of his father's house, he found his whole family sitting in awkward silence. His father sat in his favoured chair while Harry lounged on the sofa, her face an odd mixture of tension and happiness. John fixed his eyes on his mother. She sat opposite Harry. Her face was blank but her body posture was rigid. Her hands, which were resting on her lap, were curled into fists, clenching the hem of her skirt tightly so that her knuckles burned white. In the middle of them, sitting on the coffee table was an open letter. It was not an ordinary letter, either. John just had to glance at the paper to know that it had come from Harry's school.

"John!" It was Harry who broke the silence. She leapt from the chair and gathered him in a bone-crushing hug. "Congratulations," she whispered, her breath soft against his ear. He wrenched himself away.

"What are you talking about?"

"You got a letter from Hogwarts," she told him, her eyes filling with pride. She touched his cheek, pinched it lightly. It still stung and he swatted her hand away. "I can't believe it."

"That can't be right." It was wrong, he thought. Maybe it was a joke Harry had put up. It wouldn't be beneath his father to join in. But then, his mother was here. Why would she go here? Unless Harry was telling the truth. Unless he actually was a wizard and he just hadn't noticed it yet. But maybe the school had made a mistake. He hadn't displayed any signs of being capable of magic ever! Helplessly, he shook his head. "Can't be right," he repeated.

"Read it," his father urged. The paper was handed to him, heavy in his hands. The paper was shaking and it took a moment for John to realize that his hands were unsteady. He forced himself to keep still before he let his eyes fall on the letter.

_Dear Mr Watson,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—_

He did not have to continue reading to know what would happen. One look at his mother's face and John already knew that things would go downhill between them.

For his father and older sister, John Watson's life began on the twenty-fourth of July. For John himself, it was the beginning of the end.


	2. A Lion and a Snake

"Do you have everything with you?" Hamish Watson asked as he inspected the trolley. "Clothes, books, school things? Everything in here?"

"Dad, you've got to stop worrying," Harry muttered with a roll of her eyes. She had John pressed to her side, one arm draped across his shoulders, practically strangling him. John didn't seem to mind though. He looked as if he barely registered it. He had been like that all morning, numb and detached. His eyes were on his trainers but every now and then he would look up and scan the crowd. His father did not have to guess to know who he was looking for.

She's not coming, he wanted to tell him. She hadn't made her presence known since she left John to his care. A part of Hamish hated her for abandoning their son. Another part wanted to thank her for leaving him be. John was—surprisingly—one of them. And he wouldn't become a better one if he stayed with one of the biggest Muggles Hamish had ever met—and Merlin's sake, he even _married_ her. It was tearing John apart, he knew, but the boy needed to move on, the way he did.

Harry seemed to be thinking along the same lines as him. She moved away from John then walked to a group of teenagers who must have been her friends. They were just getting ready to cross the barrier. Hamish looked at his watch. They still had plenty of time.

"Nervous, aren't you?" he said, doing his best to keep his voice light and cheerful for John's sake. His son looked up at him. "I know it's still overwhelming, but you'll get used to it eventually."

"But what if there's been a mistake?" John bit his lip. It was a nervous habit, one that Harry shared. "I haven't made anything weird happen at all."

"You went to Ollivanders, John. A wand chose you and that means you're a wizard like me." He didn't miss the way John's hand moved to his pocket where his new wand was. True, nothing had happened when they went to the shop. The wand had merely sat there in John's palm. But there had been a shift in the air, one that the current Ollivanders did not fail to miss. "Powerful wand," he'd told John, his strange eyes filled with amusement, "But rather shy. It's bidding for the right time."

Which was when?

"But what if I don't get Sorted at all?" John asked.

"Impossible," Hamish replied. He ruffled the boy's hair affectionately. He had been doing more of that lately. He did not know John very well, not like Harry. He hadn't had a chance to. It worried him a little, and the fact that he didn't know what his son was really like was shameful. He wanted John to feel comfortable about this, not just about the wizarding world, but with him.

A bottleneck was beginning to form in front of the barrier. More and more students were arriving with their families. Hamish recognized a few of his colleagues who waved back at him. "Better get going, Dad," Harry told them as pushed her trolley to the platform 9 ¾. A red-haired boy with freckles followed her, probably a Weasley. John was watching them and Hamish took it as a sign that the boy was ready to go.

He let John push the trolley while he walked beside him, one hand on his shoulder as they crossed. John looked a little shaken but that was expected. He had never done it before as his mother hadn't permitted him to see Harry off when she went to Hogwarts. John scanned the crowd for Harry. "Where'd she go?" he asked, moving aside to let a gruff-looking man pass by.

"You know your sister. Always on the go."

Hamish did not find Harry, but he did find someone who knew her quite well. The seventeen-year-old looked at him, recognition flashing across his face. "Mr Watson," Mycroft Holmes drawled. "What a pleasure to see you."

Hamish smiled a little. "Head Boy this year, eh, Mycroft?" The badge was already pinned on the boy's robes. Great, he thought. Mycroft had sent his daughter to detention countless of times in the past. Now that he was Head Boy, he'd probably find a way to expel her. Hamish remembered Mycroft talking to him about Harry the last time he was here. It had not been a pleasant conversation.

"And this is your son? The family resemblance is striking. Funny, I didn't know Harry had a brother." That last one was a downright lie and Hamish knew it. The sentence could be rephrased to _I know Harry has a sibling but how come I've never seen him before until now?_

"It's complicated." He looked at John who confirmed it with a nod. "Your brother's starting as well, isn't he?"

Hamish had never met Sherlock Holmes, but he knew enough stories about him. They often talked about him in the Ministry where Hamish worked under the Department of International Magical Corporation. They had been able to keep the truth from the wizarding world that the mass blackout eleven years prior had been caused by the then infant Sherlock. The incident had both worried and fascinated them. That was the greatest uncontrolled magic they had ever witnessed, and it had been caused by someone who hadn't even been three hours old at the time. "He might be the next Harry Potter," the Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic had said. It was a good assumption, considering the alternative.

No one really needed to live in fear all over again.

Mycroft raised one eyebrow, no doubt knowing just how curious Hamish was. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, inwardly cursing himself for being a little frightened by someone young enough to be his son. "Ah, yes, my dear brother," Mycroft said, sounding a little weary. "Mummy thought he would have been better suited for Beauxbatons while Father thought he would do well in Durmstrang. Surprisingly, he chose Hogwarts. It must have been the appeal of the castle that made him make up his mind. Not that Hogwarts isn't a good school but there were so many choices.

"He's already on board, I'm afraid. He doesn't like being around me for too long and I must say that I share his feelings. My brother has always been difficult." You should know, his look said. Hamish hastily made an excuse to steer John away from him.

"Who was that, Dad?"

"Just don't make trouble until he graduates and you don't have to worry about him," he muttered. "Promise me I won't have to send you a Howler."

John looked at him confusedly but he nodded. "Promise."

* * *

"I reckon I'm in Hufflepuff," Mike Stamford told him as they waited in line. He flashed his too-white teeth at John once more. "How 'bout you? Where'd you think you'll end up?"

All John managed was a shrug. Mike was a good guy and he had quelled John's worries during the train ride, but John was beginning to get tired of his enthusiasm. It was nerves, maybe, or the fact that he was chilled to the bone from the boat ride. The Giant Squid residing in the Great Lake had lifted a tentacle at the wrong time and had splashed ice water at them in the process. John was still freezing and absolutely soaked. He had no idea how Mike, who had been in the boat with him, could dismiss the cold. "C-can't really t-tell," he said, his teeth chattering. "My s-sister's in Gryffindor. Maybe I'll g-go there."

"Hush," the girl standing close to them hissed, "it's starting." John looked over Mike's shoulder to see that the Sorting was about to begin. A wizard in bright yellow robes had pulled up a stool and set it at the front of the Hall. The older students were beginning to quiet down, their eyes trained on the wizard who brought forth a very old hat. The Sorting Hat, John knew. Harry had told him how things worked. You only have to put it on, John, he told himself. This, however, did not calm him down as he'd hoped it would.

He looked at the Gryffindor table. Harry was talking to one of her friends, laughing a little too loudly in John's opinion. A boy he guessed was a prefect shot her a glare which Harry completely ignored. So much for not having Dad send any Howlers this year, he thought grimly.

The wizard produced a long parchment that brushed against the floor. One by one names were called and one by one, students took a seat and donned the Sorting Hat. Most took only a few seconds to be sorted. The respective tables roared every time a student was placed in their House, all but for the Slytherins who did nothing more than clap politely. They were a strange lot.

There was a pause when the wizard scanned the parchment again. After clearing his throat one, twice, the man called, "Holmes, Sherlock!"

Holmes, Sherlock turned out to be a very skinny boy with a curly mass of black hair and the palest skin he had ever seen. There was something about him that drew attention. People were sitting up, craning their necks to get a better view of the skinny boy. John was doing the same, and he could not even tell why.

John was not able to see much of his face as the hat was dropped as soon as the boy sat down. He noted that Holmes, Sherlock was behaving strangely. He sat with his back straight, his hands pressed together as if in prayer. Maybe he was praying. Maybe the hat was saying horrible things to him. John wondered if it would ask him if he knew any spells. God, what if it asked him to execute one? He was still doubting if he even inherited the magical trait despite having been able to enter Hogwarts.

Two whole minutes passed before the hat finally shouted, sounding a little put off, "Slytherin!"

There was no applause this time. The Slytherin table greeted the boy with silence. Holmes, Sherlock did not seem to mind. John caught him glaring at an older boy who sat with the Ravenclaws. John recognized him as the boy his father had talked to a while ago. He seemed displeased.

Hooper, Molly, a Hufflepuff, came next then a few others until Murray, Bill, another one of John's companions in the train and the boat, walked to the stool. He dripped water as he walked then managed to give a cheeky grin before the hat fell on his head. "Gryffindor!" the hat shouted and Bill ran to the cheering students.

Soon enough, it was Mike's turn. The hat declared him a Hufflepuff. The other boy grinned at John encouragingly before he moved to his table.

A few more names were called. John's anxiety grew when they reached the v's: Valensi, Vixen, Von Eupiel. And finally…

"Watson, John!"

Heart pounding, John approached the stool. He heard someone shout his name, followed by a round of giggling. Harry and her friends, no doubt. He saw his sister's face before the hat slipped over his eyes.

"Oh," a voice breathed. It sounded raspy and very old. John knew it was all in his head but he gripped the bottom of the stool for security. "A Watson, but quite different from the last one.

"Let's see…Dear, you're a challenge, aren't you? You have trust issues…hmm, and for a good reason as well. But you're loyal to the people you do trust which makes you suited for Hufflepuff. Clever, too. Your intelligence is above average. Ravenclaw won't be bad for you. I can't see you in Slytherin, though. Not manipulative enough. But ah, Gryffindor…oh, you thirst for adventure, don't you? You want to prove yourself. My, my, we're in for an interesting year."

"Gryffindor!" the hat shouted. John's ears rang when the Gryffindors began to cheer loudly. Harry's popular here, was all he thought as his sister caught him in a headlock.

Gryffindor. He was in Gryffindor, the House for those brave and strong. John could not help but laugh. He did not feel very brave or strong. True, he was rather tough in the Muggle world, but this was Hogwarts. He felt defenceless with all these strangers. Still he put on a smile when Bill moved over to congratulate him.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't running exactly. He was just walking quickly, knocking aside fellow students who threw insults at his back. Sherlock paid no attention to them. The only thought running in his mind at the moment was to get away, to put as much distance between him and—

"Stop it, Sherlock." Mycroft put his hand on his shoulder, his fingers gripping him tightly. To move was not an option. The pressure on his shoulder told Sherlock that his brother would not let him go. To move meant pain, and to move also meant Mycroft would just chase after him.

He glared at his older brother until the other boy got his point. The hand was dropped. "Well, spit it out now," he hissed. "And make it quick. I have better things to waste my time with."

"Like what?" Mycroft sneered. "Making your experiments in the Astronomy tower? Dear brother, it's only been a few days but I already know where you've been and what kind of trouble you've been brewing. You should be thankful I'm not putting you in detention right now."

"If that's all—"

"You know that it's not just that." Mycroft fixed him with a look. Of course Sherlock knew and he knew just what was coming next. "Mummy is terribly worried about you and Father's doing his best not to let the Ministry monitor you even more than they already do. If you don't want to be in Slytherin it can easily be arranged for you to move to a different House. Ravenclaw, preferably."

Ravenclaw. Sherlock wrinkled his nose. Supposedly, Ravenclaw was the House for the wise and the intelligent but Sherlock had already assessed that none were as smart as him. They were smart when it came to academics, true, but they weren't _clever_. They didn't know how to use their skills to their advantage. "No," he muttered. He didn't like Slytherin either, especially that absolute imbecile Anderson, but most of them left him alone. They were not as social as the other Houses, and the silence suited Sherlock just fine.

Mycroft sighed. "At least write to Mummy and tell her you haven't turned into a Dark wizard, and that you haven't killed anyone yet. You know how she worries about you and how she keeps thinking the Ministry will take you away whenever you do something unseemly."

"I haven't done anything wrong!"

"Your being placed in Slytherin which has housed more Dark witches and wizards than anyone can remember is enough to worry anyone, especially since your magic is so dangerously unstable, to the point that the Ministry has to monitor your every move lest you accidentally end up killing hundreds of people."

Sherlock glared at him. "Write to her," Mycroft demanded before walking away, leaving him in the hall. A few Second Years had stopped to watch their exchange. Sherlock snarled at them, making one girl drop her books. Idiots, he thought as he climbed the stairs that lead to the Owlery. Warm air greeted him from the windows but he stubbornly pulled his scarf tighter around himself. It was not the standard green and silver of the Slytherins, but a simple blue one which was just a shade lighter than the Ravenclaw colour. Older students and a few of the professors often mistook him for a Ravenclaw because of this but Sherlock still kept it. It was not because he was being sentimental. Merlin, he would never be caught dead for having such mundane things as _feelings._ No, the scarf was merely warmer than the one that was part of his uniform and was much more comfortable.

A few of the birds took flight as he searched the room. Some glared at him from beneath their wings while others hooted indignantly. He was not well loved by animals. They could undoubtedly smell the frog ( _rana clamitans_ ) he had just dissected a while ago. Curious, Sherlock reached for one of the barn owls ( _tyto alba_ ). It snapped its beak at him and had he been a split second too late in retrieving his hand, he would have lost a finger.

"There you are, you stupid bird," Sherlock muttered when he finally spotted the raven ( _corvus corax_ ) perched on one of the roosts, quite out of place in a room full of owls. The black bird had been given to him on his eleventh birthday and though Sherlock did not like it very well, he had to admit they were similar in ways. The raven (he had not bothered to give it a name because names were irrelevant, especially to animals) was just as stubborn as him and it proved this when it took flight just as Sherlock touched it.

"Get back here!" he growled, making a grab for his wand.

"Oi, what do you think you're doing?"

Sherlock turned around. A boy had entered the room. First Year, Gryffindor, blond hair, blue eyes, family resemblance to Harriet Watson who is famous for being a delinquent, short of stature, ate a sandwich a while ago judging from the smear of ketchup and mayonnaise on the front of his shirt, left handed as can be seen from the way his hand moves to his pocket where his wand is kept…Sherlock trailed off his deductions. "You're not going to hurt that bird, are you?" the boy asked, his brows knit in confusion. Loves animals, Sherlock thought.

"Of course not," he said, sounding a little sharp. "Father would send me a Howler if I did. This one's mine." But it sure didn't act that way. The raven cawed at him before seeking refuge behind a sleeping owl. Sherlock gritted his teeth. He was becoming more and more tempted to not write to his mother. But Mycroft would just keep nagging him if he didn't do it.

"Oh. Well, okay." Sherlock watched as the boy chose one of the school owls. The bird hooted at him in greeting, sounding almost fond. The boy smiled as he took out a crumpled letter from his pocket and tied it to the leg of the owl. He made it look so easy.

Sherlock glared at his pet once more. The raven merely cocked its head to the side. Stupid bird.

Better write the letter first, he thought. He took out his wand and produced a parchment and quill out of thin air. "No way," he heard the boy say. Sherlock looked at him. "I mean, non-verbal magic? I don't know much but Harry tells me that it's really advanced."

"It's quite easy," Sherlock drawled. He scanned the boy quickly. "She's not going to write back to you, you know."

Ah. That got him. The boy visibly froze. "What are you talking about?" he asked, his voice and posture tense.

"Your mother."

"How do you know I'm writing to my mother?"

"You can't be writing to your father. The sweatshirt you're currently wearing says Harvard which I know is a Muggle school. Your father is Muggle-born and probably inherited the shirt from a relative but gave it to you so you can feel secure in a new environment. It is possible that both of your parents are Muggles but it is unlikely considering the fact that both you and your sister have magical traits which rarely happens if both parents are non-magical. Your sister also wears shirts like that whenever she can which means that her relationship with your father is clearly stronger than with your mother. Why? Your mother's a Muggle and no doubt did not take the news well when you were accepted to Hogwarts. The knees of your trousers have been patched but not recently meaning that the person who used to stitch them for you is no longer present in your life. Your parents are divorced probably because your father did not tell her immediately that he was a wizard. Your relationship with your mother is strong—or was—as can be seen from your patched up clothing which means that you've lived with her more, possibly because you showed little to no signs of being a wizard which I can deduce from the way you keep putting your hand in your pocket where your wand is as if you can't believe it's actually there. You feel guilty because you don't know who to choose anymore. Your father or your mother. I say you should choose your father because I am quite sure your mother's views on you have changed since you got your letter."

Sherlock stopped when he saw the expression on the boy's face. It was a cross between anger and humiliation. "Not good?" he asked.

"Bit not good," the boy muttered. Sherlock watched as he let the owl go then stalked off without another look at him. Sherlock felt an odd twinge in his gut but dismissed it as hunger. He wrote his letter hastily in his neat script then reread it to check if he had been too blunt.

_Mother,_

  
_You need not worry about me constantly. I am fine and so far, I have not caused too much trouble. I have continued making my experiments but no one has caught me and Mycroft isn't telling any of the professors. I assure you that I will not put too much attention on myself_ (a lie but his mother needed to be reassured) _and that I will control my magic constantly_. _As for school classes are frightfully dull and my professors do not know what to make of me. Tell Father this. He will no doubt be amused by what he calls my 'peculiarities'._  


_-SH_

No sentimentalities at all. Good. His mother wouldn't mind. That was just him being him. He folded the parchment neatly then made a move toward the raven. "Now get back here, you imbecile," he hissed then lunged.

* * *

Ugh. Wrong. Again.

John sighed in frustration as he picked up the soda can and righted it once more. He looked at Bill who grinned slightly. "Come on, mate," he said as he brushed back the too long straggly brown hair from his forehead. "It ain't that hard."

John scowled at him but said nothing. No, it wasn't hard to Bill Murray who had five older brothers who'd all gone to Hogwarts before him, who was born in a proper wizarding family with both parents there for him, and who'd never once doubted that he belonged in the wizarding community. John gripped his wand tightly. He did not feel the familiar comforting buzz in it. He had half a mind to chuck it across the room and never see it again.

"One more try?" Bill said. He pushed his sleeves back then said clearly, "Expelliarmus!"

His can fell off the table with a clang. Professor Parkins patted Bill's shoulder. "Nice clean shot there, Murray," he praised before he moved to another pair.

"Okay, John, you're turn."

You can do this, John. He pursed his lips and stared at the can hard. He knew the proper wrist movement, could recite the incantation clearly. It was just the execution that was the problem. But unfortunately for him, the execution was the most important. "Expelliarmus!" he cried, pointing the wand at the can. The can was jostled to the side but it didn't fall. A weak shot. John did not have to look at Bill's face to know how ridiculous he'd been.

"Expelliarmus!"

They whipped their heads just in time to see one can fly across the room. It hit the wall where it made a large dent. The can rolled to Professor Parkins' feet, smoking and black around the bottom. "That was quite remarkable, Mr Holmes!" the professor squeaked. "And quite deadly, I must say." Their teacher laughed nervously as he eyed the bored-looking Slytherin.

John gritted his teeth when Sherlock's eyes met his. It had been three days since their meeting in the Owlery, and in the event of those three days, Sherlock had somehow gotten himself in detention (apparently, he managed to blow up six cauldrons while everyone was asleep). It was just John's luck that his form of detention was to help tutor the other First Years in Defence Against the Dark Arts, a subject that was not the strong point of many.

"You need help," Sherlock said when he approached him. It was a statement, not a question. John looked at Bill's confused face and shook his head. He would tell him why he was so furious later. Right now he had to deal with the problem.

"You lack confidence, Watson," Sherlock muttered. "You have to believe you can actually do it so that the spell will be stronger."

"Oh, and I guess your overconfidence is what makes each of your spells pretty strong?" John bit back. From his peripheral vision, he saw Bill raise his brow. John glanced at him. Not your fight, mate, was what his look said. Bill seemed to get it anyway because he left the two of them to assist Ella.

Sherlock didn't seem to find it an insult because he merely nodded. "I'm getting rather bored and I've been forced to assist every incompetent person in this room but for you. If I can make you perform well enough I'm free to go."

Incompetent? John knew he wasn't good when it came to executing spells. He was good in Potions and Herbology and all the other classes that did not require him to use a wand and recite an incantation. But nobody had dared say it out loud, save for a few Slytherins who just wanted to get on his nerve. Those Slytherins annoyed him, sure, but something about the way Sherlock said it made him bloody furious.

He was gripping his wand so hard that it hurt. Damn Holmes. Damn him and his creepy eyes and his stupid knowing smile. Damn it if his father sent him a Howler. John was going to hit him so hard he wouldn't be able to smell anything through a broken nose for a whole month.

Okay. He was raising his fist now. He was definitely going for it.

Something did knock Sherlock over but it wasn't his fist. Blood welled from where the can had hit Sherlock's temple. Did he do that? John stared at the open-mouthed Slytherin. But he hadn't even done anything. He'd been gripping his wand but he hadn't raised it. Panic seized him and he looked at Sherlock helplessly.

"What happened here?" Professor Parkins asked, pushing aside some curious Gryffindors. He blanched visibly when he saw Sherlock sitting on the ground with blood running down his face. "Watson!" he said sharply, noticing that John was holding his wand which, though not raised, was pointed at Sherlock. "I can't believe you did that! I will dock fifty points from Gryffindor for this display of violence!"

"It wasn't John's fault, sir," Bill piped in. "I saw everything. He didn't even raise his wand!"

"It was merely a miscalculation, Professor," _Sherlock_ said smoothly as he rose. John stared at him, wondering whether or not the other boy was actually joking. But he seemed serious and even added, "It was my fault. A bit too much. The can ricocheted off the wall and hit me."

Professor Parkins looked torn between wanting to slap a detention on John and helping Sherlock. In the end he chose neither. "You should go to the Infirmary and have that treated," he said. "As for the rest of you, back to training!"

"Was that me?" John asked as Sherlock magicked his injury away, the Infirmary be damned. "Did I do that?"

"Yes. Surprisingly." Sherlock was looking at him now with interest. It was disconcerting. John fidgeted under his gaze and looked over his shoulder for Bill. But his friend had taken interest in someone else and was currently laughing over a joke Kylie Mathews said. He turned his attention back to Sherlock.

"Surprisingly?"

"Once the Trace makes itself official which is when you receive formal training, it's hard to let uncontrolled magic slip." Sherlock paused then smiled. It was almost imperceptible but John saw the corners of his lips twitch upwards. "But not for a powerful wizard."

John bit his lip and backed away. When he looked up again, Sherlock Holmes was gone.

"Ready for another round?" Bill asked, startling him.

"Huh? Oh, right." He looked at the can which had now been placed back on the table. Confidence? Was that all it took? John took a deep breath. "Expelliarmus!"

The can soared across the room, hitting the wall, though it did not leave an impression like when with Sherlock. Still, it was surprising. He got a few appraising looks from his peers. "Good shot, Watson," Professor Parkins commented.

Bill grinned at him, his eyes wide. "How'd you do that?"

John shrugged. "No idea."


	3. The Enigma That Is Sherlock Holmes

The next time John Watson had a proper conversation with Sherlock Holmes was three years later, standing beside the Hogwarts Express, staring at each other curiously. Ever since that class in Defence Against the Dark Arts, Sherlock and John had ignored each other. It was not as if there was any more reason for them to chat. Gryffindors and Slytherins were still prejudiced against each other despite their reconciliations during Potter's time. And even if they had been in different Houses, they still wouldn't have talked. Sherlock had managed to become the most disliked student in the school because of his barmy antics and never-ending deductions, while John's popularity had sky-rocketed ever since he joined the Quidditch team two years prior.

During the past years, John Watson had changed. He was no longer the frightened little boy that had entered Hogwarts with barely a hint of magic in him. He was tougher, stronger, and a very good wizard. He would not realize until much later that his turning point had been in the Defence Against the Dark Arts class he'd shared briefly with Sherlock Holmes. Instead, he gave credit to his changed feelings toward his family. Months after his mother refused to reply to any of his letters, John began to chip her out of his memory. He did not forget her entirely, but he managed to make the brighter memories duller so that he wouldn't hurt if they crossed his mind. On the other hand, he grew closer to his father and less to Harry who had taken up smoking and drinking in her Fifth Year. It devastated his father but he was too quiet, too worried that if he did say something, Harry would lash out and leave. So it was up to John to sort his sister out and make sure she wasn't going anywhere they wouldn't find her.

As for Sherlock Holmes, he did not change very much personality-wise. He was still arrogant, frustratingly clever, stubborn, and highly immature. That dark aura still surrounded him, the one that drew people's eyes to him the way a car crash would. He was a walking lightning storm, beautiful and dangerous to behold. But he was also a prisoner of the Ministry, a rare specimen that had to be watched constantly. Very few people knew this.

But physically, he had changed and John did not fail to notice it. He actually did a double-take when Mike pointed out Sherlock Holmes in the crowd of Hogwarts students returned from summer vacation. His older brother, now a member of the Ministry, his father had told him, trailed after Sherlock while a pretty witch with dark hair followed close by, a parchment and quill in hand. They were talking, arguing most likely as Sherlock was waving his hands around with an irritated look on his face. His pet raven sat on his shoulder and seemed to be glaring at Mycroft Holmes as well.

"Sherlock looks different, doesn't he?" Mike said. They both noticed the gaggle of girls openly ogling the other boy. John shrugged but he had to admit that Sherlock did look good. He must have had one giant growth spurt over the summer because he was now a head taller than John, when previously they had been the same height. He had on a long black coat that billowed like a cape when he moved. When once his features had seemed awkwardly mismatched, he now looked like he had some Veela in him. John frowned at that. It wouldn't be past Sherlock to become more mysterious than he already was, and having that heritage would certainly add a little more to his persona.

"Piss off, Mycroft!" Sherlock spat vehemently, his voice loud enough to be heard across the platform. A few raised their heads to look. Mycroft Holmes narrowed his eyes at Sherlock but said nothing and let his brother storm off. John was not sure if he should feel sorry for him.

To John's surprise, Sherlock paused in front of him and Mike. "Hello, Mike," he greeted, all sharpness gone from his surprisingly deep voice. Those too-pale eyes moved to John, scanning him, deducing him. It was uncomfortable. No wonder so many people had hit Sherlock's face last year. "Hello, John."

"Hey," they muttered back.

It was not much of a conversation but it was literally the first time they had talked to each other since their First year. John had shared classes with Sherlock but he had always been quiet, or if not quiet, raving on and on about how he was much better than the professors (he did not say it out loud but John could hear the subtext). Sherlock gave him that small smile once more before he boarded the train.

"He's so weird," Mike said as they heaved their trunks up. Mike grunted with the effort—he had gotten a little fat over the summer, though only Bill had ever commented on it. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his sweaty face. "It's not that I hate the guy but if he's like that all the time it really is no wonder he doesn't have friends."

"Oh gosh, Mike, that's pretty harsh for you." It was a joke really, and Mike chuckled lightly. But what Mike said was true. Sherlock didn't have friends. He always sat at the far end of the Slytherin table when he ate, and whenever the professors asked them to find pairs during class projects, Sherlock would always volunteer to go solo. It was a little sad and a part of John wanted to invite him with them. But the bigger part of him reminded him that Sherlock Holmes was an enigma and enjoyed being one. People like that didn't need friends.

The compartments were full but they got lucky on the third try because Bill was in it. What was not so lucky— for Bill anyway—was that when John and Mike entered, he was just about to shag Emily Burwell. The Hufflepuff shrieked when she saw them and hastily tightened her blouse around herself to hide her breasts. John had seen them, though, and Mike as well because the other boy had turned beet red.

"Bloody hell, you guys ruin everything," Bill muttered when Emily ran away. He was lying on the floor still, his shirt open and his fly undone.

"We stop you from getting someone pregnant is what happens," John replied. He kicked Bill gently, forcing him to sit up.

"You're one to talk, Three Continents Watson," Bill teased, earning an annoyed groan from John. He had gotten the nickname after one faithful night, when they were celebrating their win over Slytherin. John who had been drunk on firewhiskey had made out with one girl from each House, except Slytherin. Bill had even taken photographs which he kept threatening to send to his father.

They talked about their summer during the train ride. After the trolley lady came by, they got a visit from Greg Lestrade, a Sixth Year who was a prefect and captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. "Hey, John," he greeted as he sat next to Mike, "Heard you got a new broom."

"Nothing much, just a Griffin 90."

"Still, perfect broom for a Gryffindor," Lestrade, who talked almost all the time about Quidditch, said happily. "That's pricey, ain't it? Means it's good quality."

"Yeah." Inwardly, John winced. He hadn't begged his father for a new broom, but Hamish Watson had noticed that his old Cleansweep (it had been Harry's before she decided Quidditch didn't suit her) was already falling apart. The Griffin wasn't as expensive as the classic Firebolts, but it still burned a hole in his father's pocket. "Don't worry about it, Johnny," he'd said when John unwrapped the broom, "You've been really good and I think you deserve a reward."

He did, didn't he? But it still felt like it was too much.

The carriages were waiting for them as usual. John wondered what the thestrals pulling them looked like. Mike, whose father worked in St. Mungo's where he spent most of the summer, had described it to them. According to Mike, they looked like skeletal horses with black skin and long manes. "They're spooky-looking," he'd said before adding that it was better off they couldn't see them.

Lestrade, who had been laughing as something Bill had said, stopped short when he saw Sherlock Holmes. The Slytherin was just standing there, staring at the carriage. But when John looked closer, he saw that Sherlock was actually standing in front of a thestral. He couldn't see the creature but he saw Sherlock's clothes rustle and his hair was being pushed back, possibly by the creature's snout. "Hey, Sherlock," Lestrade greeted, looking a little sad in John's opinion, "Want to join us?"

 _No_! John wanted to say it but none of them dared object with Sherlock present. To John's dismay, the other boy nodded, and together, they boarded the carriage. Lestrade sat with Sherlock while John, Mike, and Bill were squished in the seat opposite them. Sherlock was rather quiet during the ride and did not look at them once, not even when they got in front of the castle. Lestrade sighed and shook his head as they watched Sherlock go.

"Funny, I didn't know you were friends," John said as they walked to the Great Hall. Mike waved them goodbye before he moved to the Hufflepuffs where he took a seat next to Molly Hooper.

"My dad's friends with his father." Lestrade's brows furrowed. "Well, was."

"Huh?"

"Didn't you read the Daily Prophet? About the man who was killed in Diagon Alley a week ago? That was Sherlock's father. The details are hazy. My dad's an Auror and he told me they still don't know who did it. They've tried asking Sherlock but he was hit with a strong Confundus Charm."

"You mean he was there when it happened?"

"Yup, explains why he can see the thestrals now. Very little people know that it was a Holmes that died. They don't like media exposure, their lot, which is why it was hushed up. And Sherlock's older brother's in the Ministry. He must have erased the memory of those who did witness it."

"Was it the Killing Curse?"

Lestrade shuddered. "No. It wasn't a clean death," he said and he left it at that.

John looked up from his still-empty plate and took notice of Sherlock. He sat away from his peers as usual, his eyes fixed somewhere in front of the hall. John remembered all the times he had joined in one his friends teasing Sherlock. They had never mocked him openly but they had made jokes behind his back, jokes that John had laughed at. Remembering all those times made John feel ill, and he was glad when the Sorting began, taking his mind off Sherlock Holmes.

 

* * *

 

There were many things that Sherlock Holmes did not like.

 

**A few examples:**

Mushrooms

Relationships

Mycroft

Anderson

Mistletoe

 

He did not really hate mushrooms. Most mushrooms were quite interesting and could be used in several experiments. It was not the taste either because he was used to exotic cuisines. It was the way they slid down his throat so easily that he could not even register it. He disliked that slick, slightly rubbery feeling whenever he chewed on one. This was why in the Holmes' estate, whenever their staff cooked pasta, they would always make a separate plate for Sherlock, one that was one hundred per cent free of mushrooms.

As for relationships, Sherlock didn't do them. Most human beings, Muggle or wizard, were incompetent. He could not imagine spending the rest of his life with one. Sherlock Holmes simply did not love. Oh yes, he loved his family in his cold-hearted way but when it came to the boyfriend-girlfriend thing, Sherlock just couldn't see himself being someone's significant other. A pity, really. He was quite good-looking.

Mycroft, he disliked for obvious reasons. He loved him, though, but it was usually buried deep beneath anger and annoyance. He disliked Mycroft because Mycroft always nagged him and monitored him and treated him like a child. He disliked Mycroft's plump figure and his umbrella and the way he tapped it on the ground whenever he was displeased with Sherlock, which was often. It was so annoying and Sherlock's self-control was always weakened when Mycroft was present, an irony really, seeing as how Mycroft was also the one who made sure he wouldn't spontaneously combust in the form of a fatal curse.

Anderson, he disliked because Anderson was just the most idiotic individual Sherlock had ever met. This was why his insults mattered so little because Sherlock was actually amazed the other boy could even string sentences. Anderson was some sort of miracle in that way.

Mistletoes, Sherlock grew to _hate_ when two years ago, one of his distant cousins had trapped him beneath one. She had given him a kiss that had lasted for exactly five point two seconds. It had been long enough for Sherlock to register the taste of month-old shellfish in her mouth and that she had smelled too strongly of lavender. Sherlock had lost his sense of smell for a short time because of that, and had Mycroft not taken his wand from him earlier, he would have cursed her for making him lose one of his most important senses.

But what Sherlock really did not like and had not liked since he was just a small boy was being touched. Even when with his family, Sherlock disapproved of it. When he had been younger, relatives and colleagues of his father had often paused to ruffle his hair or pinch his cheeks. Sherlock had tolerated it until he reached Hogwarts. It was just so irritating to be touched, especially when he was thinking very hard about something. Even a brush of a finger against his skin would make him grimace because this was all it took for him to lose track of his thoughts.

This was why he was quite livid when Sebastian Wilkes, a Slytherin who was in his Seventh Year, grabbed Sherlock's shoulder and slammed him against the wall. He was not so much as irritated at the feeling of the brick wall against him and how his head had hit it. No, he was annoyed because he had been thinking of experimenting on a grindylow and its exposure to tampered gillywater when Sebastian had so rudely interrupted him.

"Hey, kid," Sebastian growled, shooting him a malicious grin. His smile was big and Sherlock was able to deduce that Sebastian had eaten a mince meat pie just half an hour ago and that he brushed his teeth before he had his meals because Sherlock could still smell mint on his breath, mixed with food and pumpkin juice.

"You're looking rather well, Holmes. That pretty mouth of yours needs to be filled with something other than insults." Sebastian pressed against him. Sherlock felt the hot, hard pressure against his thigh. Sexually frustrated, rejected by the girl he'd been pursuing, first instinct to dominate someone. Sherlock sighed. And he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was dinner time and the chance of someone passing by was little. Sherlock had his wand tucked in his back pocket but he couldn't reach it with Sebastian pressing against him like that. He could cast a spell without it in his hand and without saying anything but he was still quite pissed and he knew he wouldn't be able to stop at a simple curse if he let himself. And really, he did not want to see Mycroft's face right now.

A sharp pull at his hair broke his thoughts. Sherlock had been expecting it but of course, pain couldn't really be reasoned with. He let out a thin yelp that Sebastian laughed at. "God, you are a bitch, aren't you?" the Slytherin jeered. "And so fucking untouchable. Until tonight, Holmes. It's your own fault that puberty's been so good to you."

Oh well. He would just fight Sebastian without the aid of magic. He had trained himself in physical combat years ago, something Mycroft had found useless. Sherlock, on the other hand, had thought it might come in handy. Well, now he could put it to use.

"Get off him, you git!"

Sebastian dropped to the ground, groaning as he rubbed the lump on the back of his head. Sherlock turned to John Watson who had his wand raised and pointed at Sebastian. "What an arse," John muttered as the affronted Sebastian walked away, still clutching his head. John had hit him with the rather heavy book under his arm. _Surprisingly Grotesque Medical Maladies for Your Enjoyment by Hillary Greywind_ it read in peeling gold letters. John blinked at Sherlock worriedly. "You alright, mate? You didn't look like you were enjoying it so I, uh, helped out."

His first instinct was not to be grateful. Instead, he glared at John Watson (Gryffindor, Fourth Year, Beater in the Gryffindor Quidditch team, excellent marks in all subjects but Divination, expertise in healing spells and potions, strong wizard, core of wand must be phoenix feather or unicorn hair, must be interested in becoming a healer judging from the choice of reading material). "I was doing fine on my own," he snarled, causing John to jump back.

"Wow, that's certainly the last time I help someone about to get raped," John muttered. He pushed past Sherlock and was about to leave when Sherlock stopped him.

"Madam Pomfrey's in the Infirmary at the moment. You won't be allowed to visit your sister." John stopped walking but did not turn around. Sherlock took it as an invitation to continue. "Your sister spent a whole night drinking firewhiskey, but mixed with the essence of gillyweed, complications may occur which is why your sister is in the infirmary right now, no doubt throwing up. You can't be visiting anyone else as it has only been a week since the start of term and the Quidditch season is still far off. Gryffindors like you practice early because Lestrade insists but it can't be that one of your teammates fell off a broom and got injured because you usually bring food when that happens. Your body is tense which means you're reluctant to visit her because you have a bad relationship, most probably because you don't approve of her drinking."

"Bit not good there, Sherlock," John said, turning around to face him. "But…that was amazing."

 

**Surprise**

**(** _tr.v._ **sur·prised** , **sur·pris·ing** , **sur·pris·es)**

 **1.** To encounter suddenly or unexpectedly; take or catch unawares.

 **2.** To attack or capture suddenly and without warning.

 **3.** To cause to feel wonder, astonishment, or amazement, as at something unanticipated.

 

Sherlock caught himself before John could notice that his mind had stopped for a moment. "That's not what people usually say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off."

To Sherlock's surprise, John actually laughed. Loud, a little deep, unashamed to be heard doing so. Sherlock found himself grinning back. He caught himself and did his best to replace his smile with one of his usual scowls.

"Well, I'm not very hungry so I'll just head to the Common Room," John said. "How about you?" His eyes skirted over Sherlock's lithe frame. There was a trace of concern in his smile. Cares for the well-being of others. Yes, John Watson definitely wanted to become a healer.

"You know," John told him, "You don't seem half-bad, Sherlock. I mean, you're not as annoying as you were in our First Year."

Sherlock blinked. Ah, had he encountered John Watson before? They had shared classes and there was that time in Defence Against the Dark Arts—oh, right there was that time in the Owlery. Sherlock had nearly deleted that.

"Guess you don't remember." John smiled wryly. "Well, best be off then."

Sherlock watched as John left. John Watson, he decided, was interesting. Though _why_ he was interesting he would have to find out. He needed more data on John Watson.

"Sherlock?"

Molly Hooper was standing before him. She had been crying. Even Anderson could see that. "I was wondering," she said, her lower lip trembling, "I mean, you're really good at finding things out and all and I was wondering if you could…if you could help me?"

A case, he thought. Oh, now this was interesting. He had tried to tag along Auror George Lestrade but they always sent him back, especially since his father was ki—since his father died (memory still hazy, strong Confundus charm but very specific as I can remember how my father died but not the faces of the murderers, cast by strong wizards with years of training in the Dark Arts, intent…still unknown, not for money, obviously as none were stolen). He looked at Molly Hooper. "Alright," he said, "Tell me everything."

 

* * *

 

It was raining lightly, and judging from the heavy clouds above them, it was bound to get stronger. But Lestrade was a mad tosser when it came to Quidditch. John had been stirring a potion when the Sixth Year burst in the dungeons and loudly announced that they would have their first practice on Friday, to the annoyance of Potions master Professor Richter.

This was why, at five in the afternoon, John Watson who was dressed head-to-toe in Quidditch gear was getting horribly, gallingly wet. He lugged his new broom behind him. Even the appeal of trying it out for the first time did not get to him. He was tired from having stayed up all night to finish his History of Magic essay, and all he wanted right now was a nice cup of tea and eight hours sleep.

"Quidditch season is still far off," Sally Donovan, a Chaser, muttered beside him. None of John's teammates were happy about the situation. They all looked at Lestrade who was running to get to the field. "I told Jackson we should have put a sleeping draught in his pumpkin juice but no, kid was too afraid to get in trouble."

"Lestrade would have deducted points from his own House if that happened."

"Yeah, but at least we would have gotten some sleep."

But it turned out that they weren't the only ones who had thought of using the field. When they got there, John saw the Slytherin Quidditch team holding their try-outs. New Seeker, two Chasers, and a Beater, John thought, remembering that three from their team had already graduated. Lestrade looked quite displeased and he sauntered up to Dimmock and said, "We got a permission slip first, Dimmock."

"Hold your horses, Lestrade," Dimmock, a burly boy in Lestrade's year, sneered. "We're just about to finish anyway. Seekers are already trying."

"But that can take ages!"

"We've only one left." Dimmock's brows furrowed at this and he looked at the other side of the field. The Gryffindors followed his gaze and—

"What in hell's name is the freak doing there?" Sally said, sounding utterly gobsmacked. John thought she had made a mistake at first but looking closely he saw that it was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He hadn't bothered to equip himself in the proper gear and looked quite out of place in his uniform, minus the robes. He was leaning against a magnificent black broom, one that was unmistakably a Dragon's Bane, the broom that had beaten the Firebolts in their ranking in speed. Next to John, Lestrade stared at the broom with naked lust.

"We let him join for fun. I doubt the kid can stay on a broom for more than a second." Dimmock grinned nastily. "It's lucky he's not wearing the proper gear. Let's get our hopes up that he'll fall."

John glared at him, feeling his temper boil. He remembered how Sherlock had looked when John had complimented him, like it had been the first time anyone had ever told him he was brilliant. And perhaps it had been the first time, seeing as how his own House mates treated him badly. John had always been protective of those weaker than him, and while Sherlock was an arse most of the time, John wondered if it was actually just his defence mode. Merlin, he wanted to punch Dimmock's teeth in for saying that.

Dimmock turned away from him then blew a whistle. John watched as the Snitch was released. Five minutes later, Sherlock was up in the air. _Oh_ , John thought as he watched the blur that was Sherlock. That broom was _fast_ and undoubtedly hard to manage. Only professionals used it, meaning Sherlock was highly adept when it came to flying. Less than a minute had passed when Sherlock came down, the Snitch trapped in his right hand.

"I…uh…that was…that was good, Holmes," Dimmock stammered. The other boy said nothing and left before Dimmock could tell him not to.

"What was _that_?" Lestrade hissed in his ear later when they were finished with their practice. It was already six and John had gone from cold to freezing and hungry. "Trust me, John, I've known Sherlock since he was in diapers and I've never seen him pick up a broom once until now.

"He's going to become their Seeker, I'm sure of it. How do we compete with that? I mean, Liliah's good, don't get me wrong, but Sherlock was a bloody comet out there! Oh god, we're going to lose the Quidditch cup."

"Look, the Quidditch season is still far off and we're not even sure if Sherlock will accept the position. I've heard he always does stuff like this for kicks. We'll just practice harder, alright?" As soon as the words left his mouth, John instantly regretted it. A fierce determination crossed Lestrade's face. _So much for longer sleeping hours._

As expected, John's free time had been shortened so he could spend it up in the air, whacking Bludgers. Sally and the others were calling for a revolt and John would have joined had the image of Sherlock flying not talked him out of it. They would lose if Liliah didn't get her game up or if John wasn't able to hit a few Bludgers in Sherlock's direction (just enough to shake him off the trail; John would never deliberately hurt him even if it meant they would be one step closer to winning). John had heard that Sherlock had, surprisingly, taken the position. It had earned him some less beatings and insults but the pros of Sherlock's actions went unnoticed. He carried on like no one in the world existed but for him.

Between schoolwork and practice, John had almost no time for himself which was why he practically leaped for joy when it was announced that the first Hogsmeade visit of the year was on Saturday. "You have no idea what Lestrade's like on the field," he'd groaned to Mike. "He's driving us nuts."

He and Mike were alone that day as Bill had gone after one of the townies. John spotted Lestrade and his older Quidditch teammates enter the Three Broomsticks, no doubt to try and get some firewhiskey. They would have no luck there. John knew the owner, Mrs Hudson, personally and while she did look like a frail old lady, she was also a frail old lady who could whack your arse with a broom and leave it stinging for days. Harry had fallen victim to her when she'd snuck in and stolen a bottle of wizard's tequila.

They visited their favourite haunts (Spintwitches for John, Dogweed and Deathcap for Mike) before they went to the ones that was usually crowded with Hogwarts students (Zonko's and Honeydukes, of course). Most of the shops had the famous picture of a young Harry Potter hung behind the counter. John could not help but stare at them every time he entered, wondering how the skinny, green-eyed boy who grinned back at him shyly could have saved so many people. There was also something about Harry Potter (now very old and living in the countryside) that reminded him of someone he knew. Although who it was exactly, John could not tell.

Their pockets laden with sweets and other treats, they decided to enter the less usual haunts for the sake of it. John had several essays due but he thought he'd allow himself to be lazy for once. After all, he'd been working hard for the past weeks.

Dominic Maestro's was not a shop John had ever entered as he had little interest in music (the clarinet did not count as he had only played that in the school orchestra before going to Hogwarts). He was not surprised to find that it was larger than it looked outside and that it looked very sophisticated. A classical piece that John guessed was Mozart was being played at the moment by two violins (no violinists) at the back. It did not sound as good as the original if it was played with just magic. John was about to leave when his ears picked up a better rendition.

"Hear that?" he asked Mike who nodded.

The music was calling to him and John could feel himself getting lost in it. He turned to Mike but it didn't seem to have any effect on him. "You go right ahead. I'll meet you in the Three Broomsticks later," he said, ignoring Mike's protests. Without another look over his shoulder, John climbed up the winding steps that lead to the garret. It was designed for private parties but no one was there save for one very familiar boy. John stood and watched as Sherlock Holmes, eyes closed and face peaceful, played the violin, holding it so tenderly that John could not help but think of two lovers entwined.

"You always keep finding me, John." The violin stopped abruptly and silence crashed down on them. John became painfully aware that he had just stalked up here without any permission and that he had probably invaded Sherlock's privacy. Sherlock let out a heavy sigh. He set the violin down gently then turned to him, his pale blue eyes bright and curious.

John coughed. "Didn't know you played the violin," he said, hoping to ease the tension.

"It helps me think. And I can't play the violin in school as they'll no doubt tear it away from me and break it. Esteban lets me go up here from time to time when I need to play so I can work out a case."

"A case?"

"Currently I'm trying to solve one that involves a potion that when ingested, would cause the victims to be compliant to sexual intercourse with the giver. A Lust Potion to put it simply. You might confuse it with a Love Potion but in this case, the potion only affects the body, meaning the mind is unwilling to succumb to the sexual needs of the perpetrator. It is being sold to many hormonal teens at the moment for a high price and most of my Slytherin…teammates have been able to get their hands on it. I'm trying to find the main source and I am a hundred per cent positive that I will find him tonight here in Hogsmeade."

John just gaped at him. A Lust Potion? Hormonal Slytherins? But wait, how did Sherlock get a case? "Shouldn't this be left to the Aurors?" John asked.

Sherlock snorted. "Aurors only pay attention to the _obvious_ crimes and they still aren't able to solve it because their idea of a criminal is the stereotypical one created by the mass media. It really is no wonder they had such a hard time figuring out Peter Pettigrew was Voldemort's second in command and not Sirius Black. Had I been born then I would have been able to solve it in two minutes."

At the name 'Voldemort', John shuddered visibly. He had no idea why the name scared him. Oh sure, he was the most powerful Dark Wizard of all time but John's father hadn't even been alive during the war. It was just the name itself that was creepy. It practically spewed darkness.

"I've solved cases before, John. Cold cases mostly but Lestrade's father can only do so much."

" _My dad's friends with his father…well,_ was. _"_

That explained it, then. _Don't pity him, John. His type doesn't take sympathy well._ "Your family knows about this?" _Family, oh, you're an idiot, John. His father's death's recent. You have to remind him that?_

Thankfully, Sherlock was unaffected by this. "My mother has no idea I'm still doing it—she'd have a heart-attack if she did. I've been helping solve cases since before Hogwarts and my father (Sherlock smiled here, albeit faintly) liked that about me. As for my brother (The smile was replaced by a scowl), well, Mycroft has the power to fully stop me. He's the Ministry of Magic so don't believe him for even one second if he tells you he only has a minor position. But he tolerates it because cases keep me from getting bored, and I'm not allowed to be bored for so long. I snap and things (Another smile, this one rather horrid)…well, things don't go well when I snap."

There was another pause but this one was short-lived and not at all awkward. "Your knowledge of Potions exceeds that of a Fourth Year and it will be unheard of if you don't get an Outstanding in the course when you take your O.W.L.S next year." Sherlock stared at him, head titled to the side ever so slightly. "You've been allowed to the Restricted section for your own research because of your high marks." _Surprisingly Grotesque Medical Maladies for Your Enjoyment by Hillary Greywind._ No ordinary Fourth Year was allowed to read that, not unless you were on the professor's good side.

"You've read a lot about dangerous potions."

John stared at him, knowing where this was going. Dear god, what should he say? Sherlock was undeniably mad. He was asking him to hunt down a dangerous criminal. There were Lust Potions (?) involved. He was aiming to be a prefect, or if not then at least graduate without a bad mark and without any complaints from his teachers. Merlin, he had to get back to Mike.

But then Sherlock was giving him that small smile again, the one that made sure Sherlock had some Veela in him. The purpose of that smile was to draw you in, to make you agree to anything the boy genius had to say.

"You want to see more?"

"Oh god, yes." John hated himself for falling victim to it.


	4. A Study in Potions

When Sherlock had asked him if he wanted to help solve a case, John had thought that they would actually do some chasing, or at least spy on the suspect from a safe distance. It had not crossed his mind that the first thing they would do was enter one of the more sophisticated restaurants in the outskirts of Hogsmeade. To get dinner.

John had spent the last five minutes staring at Sherlock who sat opposite him, barely even glancing at the menu that had been handed to them by a young wizard. He was fiddling with his phone (it looked like a normal Muggle phone but John knew that it had been bewitched as technology didn't work in the presence of so much magic) and he had not glanced in John's direction even once. John was beginning to regret coming along when a jovial, heavy-set man walked to their table.

"Sherlock!" the man greeted. He gave them pats on their shoulders. John nearly smacked his face on the table from the force. "It's so good to see you again. And you brought a date!"

John flushed. Oh god, he thought, this does look like a date, doesn't it? They were seated in a corner booth in a fancy restaurant that John guessed was the adult version of Maddam Puddifoot's. The wizard waiting on them had even placed a candle in the middle of the table, the one that John had put out as soon as it had been set down. "I'm not his date," he said to the man but it fell on deaf ears.

"John, Angelo. Angelo, John," Sherlock said lazily.

"Good man, our Sherlock," Angelo, who John realized was the proprietor, said, beaming, "Some Aurors had pegged me for a murder a year ago but my boy Sherlock here proved them wrong. Would have gone to Azkaban if he hadn't shown up in his school uniform and all. This boy here proved me innocent."

"Angelo's alibi was that he was trading in the black market on the same day of the murder. You did go to Azkaban, Angelo."

"Only for a few hours," Angelo replied, not at all put off by Sherlock's misdemeanour. "Food's on the house as usual, Sherlock. For you and your date."

"Not his date," John repeated but Angelo had already gone away. He turned to Sherlock and gave him a 'can you believe this?' look, but his companion didn't even acknowledge him. John sighed and waited for the food to arrive. It came after three minutes, pasta and clam chowder and something that was probably Greek. John dug in, only too happy to fill his empty stomach. Sherlock, however, didn't touch his food.

"Aren't you going to eat?"

"I'm on a case, John. Digestion slows down my thoughts." Sherlock's eyes skimmed John's face briefly before they dropped to his phone. John wondered who he was texting. A Muggle? Another wizard with a phone like his? The latter seemed more likely.

"So…um…" Blimey, why did he feel so nervous? Was it the atmosphere of the place? It really wasn't comforting to know that people thought he and Sherlock were on a date right now. Not that Sherlock was horrible. Rude, yes, but well, even John could see he was good-looking. But he was straight as a…as a…well, straight as the straightest thing in the world, whatever that was. He probably only found Sherlock attractive because he had some Veela in him.

"As a matter of fact, I do," Sherlock replied when John asked, eyes still on that damn phone. "One-eight, inherited from my mother. Very few male children born with a Veela heritage exhibit the ability to seduce without too much effort (here, John flushed). I'm one of those few. You've seen my brother, of course. He takes after Father more but Mycroft doesn't need this trait to manipulate someone."

"Ah, I uh, guessed since you look…er, like you have it." Any idiot could see that, John thought. Sherlock was tall, willowy, had those weird eyes, and was naturally graceful. "Your girlfriend must brag about you a lot. I mean, since it's so rare and all."

"Girlfriend? Ugh, not my area."

Oh. _Oh._ This wasn't disturbing. No, of course not. John's sister was a lesbian. Sherlock was gay, so what? "You have a boyfriend, then?" A small voice in the back of John's mind was desperately telling him to shut up. It got louder when Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Thinking that John might have offended him, he quickly said, "I mean, it's fine! Fine, it's all fine. Er…"

"I know it's fine. Boyfriend, girlfriend, not my area, John. I don't do relationships." Then, he frowned at John for a while, making the other boy feel very uncomfortable. John cleared his throat. Change of topic, he thought.

"So about joining the Quidditch team…That's just for the case, right?"

"Oh, yes. Sports do not interest me."

"So you're not going to play this year?" John couldn't suppress the hopeful note in his voice. If Sherlock didn't play, Slytherin was screwed. He'd heard about the others who'd tried to win the position and they hadn't been very good.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him, a smirk playing on his lips. "Why, it seems you're threatened by me, John," he said, his voice teasing. "I do not hold any interest in sports. I don't care about Quidditch at all. But it doesn't mean I won't try it. I've never played a game before and playing one match will not only help me see what all the fuss is about, but will also help me with my study on human behaviour—though said humans are imbeciles. I'm not staying after that, though, as not only do I hate flying—don't look at me like that. I know I fly well but that's because I've been doing so since I was a child. That does not mean I enjoy it. Anyway, what's our first game this year? Oh yes, Slytherin versus Gryffindor." He paused, then grinned at John evilly. "It could be interesting."

He's trying to rile me up, John thought. "Didn't think you were on the competitive side."

"That's because you rarely think."

John gritted his teeth. Right. Sherlock was an arse. But he was also an arse who was providing John a free meal. Also, if John walked out now, he'd have no place to go. It was already past curfew and the Hogwarts gates were now closed. The only way to enter was to wake up Mortimer Filch, and John would rather get eaten by wild beasts in the Forbidden Forest than to cross the grouchy old man. Sherlock knew a way in, of course. He'd obviously done this before. John would just have to sit back and watch Sherlock in his element.

* * *

* * *

_I'm going to kill him._

John's lungs were threatening to burst. He finally allowed himself to stop running, his exhaustion getting to him. Panting, he leaned against a brick wall and waited for his heart to stop racing. Where was Sherlock, damn it? John was not sure if he was dead or not but if he were alive, well, John wouldn't hesitate to strangle him.

He had no idea what had happened. One moment they were eating and the next thing John knew, Sherlock had gotten up and gone outside. John had watched him hail a Knight Bus from where he sat. That was all. He hadn't seen Sherlock get assaulted but something told John that he was in mortal danger. He had tried to reason with himself that Sherlock was fine, that this was part of his plan. But there was a nagging feeling in John's chest that wouldn't die, which was how he found himself tearing down Hogsmeade, wondering where the hell Sherlock had gone off to. He'd taken the Knight Bus meaning he could be anywhere by now. He could even be in Surrey.

 _Wrong, wrong, wrong, Sherlock, danger._ The words tumbled in John's mind. But where to look? Sherlock hadn't given any indication to where he might be. He had just sat there, amiable until he got this strange look on his face that John had associated with realization. He'd realized something—who the suspect was, maybe?

John was definitely going to kill him.

He could turn around. Go to an inn, maybe, and send an owl to Bill and Mike to tell them where he spent the night. This was the safest thing to do but John hated playing safe. And he couldn't do it when he knew that Sherlock might be lying unconscious somewhere.

A loud screech interrupted his thoughts. Looking up, John saw that a sleek black car had stopped before him. The door opened and a pretty woman holding what John guess was a Blackberry stepped out. "Mr Watson," she said, her eyes still glued to the screen, "my employer would like to speak to you."

When John didn't budge, she huffed impatiently then said, "I take it you're out looking for the younger Mr Holmes. You're wasting precious time standing in the curb."

The younger Mr Holmes? Oh. _Mycroft._ John blinked, dazed, then allowed himself to be pushed in the car. As expected, the interior was bewitched to look like a sitting room. John took a seat and found himself face to face with Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft had changed little since he graduated from Hogwarts four years ago. He had grown a little soft around the waist and his hair was shorter but other than those things, he remained the imposing figure that had leered over John when he was still a First Year.

"Well, well, John Watson, it is a pleasure to see you once more." The man's smile was insincere, mocking. It was disconcerting. "Pray tell me how your sister is. Still causing trouble?"

John shrugged. He didn't like Mycroft with his creepy smiles and pompous air. "She's fine."

"Yes, I'd say so as well since you were able to leave her long enough to go gallivanting with my dear brother. Tell me, John, what is your relationship with Sherlock?"

"We're not really close."

"And yet you willingly accepted his offer to take a case and have a romantic dinner with him. Must I inform Mummy of an oncoming wedding?"

John flushed, though if it were from anger or embarrassment, he couldn't really tell. He glared at Mycroft who simply smiled back. "He's in danger, I think," John muttered, looking away, "Sherlock, I mean."

"My brother is always in danger." There was something more to that and when John peered at Mycroft's face, he saw a tense weariness that had not been there before. But it was gone too quickly and John wondered if he had imagined it. "Where do you think Sherlock is, John?"

"Knockturn Alley." The answer came to him automatically and saying it out loud told John he'd hit the nail on the head. Mycroft's smile grew a little more so that it wasn't just an imperceptible twitch of the corners of his lips.

"Hippogriff feather, isn't it?"

"Sorry?"

"Your wand core. Hippogriff feather encased in oak, most likely. Uncommon but not extremely rare. Can only be mastered by a very patient wizard like yourself. A powerful wand. Ollivanders, of course." John stared at him confusedly while Mycroft chuckled. "It explains so much. _Priori Fraternitas_."

"What's that?"

"Do your research, John." Then to John's surprise, the doors opened. The familiar smell of Diagon Alley entered the car. "This is where I leave you. I'm afraid you'll have to walk the rest of the way to get to Knockturn Alley, but it isn't far.

"You're not coming?"

"My brother would rather kill himself than let me rescue him. No, John, the night is yours." John stepped out. He looked over his shoulder at Mycroft. "Good luck, John," he said. The doors closed and John watched as the car sped off, disappearing in the night. The streets were already empty and the only ones that could see him were the gas lamps that cast an eerie yellow glow over the place. Wand out, John ran the rest of the way to Knockturn Alley.

* * *

"It's obvious, really."

The man looked up from the flasks on the table and eyed him amusedly. He wiped his wet hands on his trousers and walked to where Sherlock sat. _Walks with a slight limp, muscle pain, no permanent injury, recovering from a sprain._ Sherlock moved to the man's face. _Late forties, bland, scar on temple._

"Tell me," the man said. _Hoarse voice, yellowed teeth, chain smoker, no scent of smoke, hands twitching, decided to quite a few days ago._ "How is it obvious?"

"Transportation. Not all of your customers are off age meaning Apparition isn't possible. Flying can be done but it would cause suspicion and it would be hard to bring back potions when on a broomstick. Portkeys cause suspicion as well. Other magical articles that are used for transportation can only be found in Dervish and Banges but since the Potter Age, shops like that are heavily guarded by the Ministry. What's the one thing that can't be detected easily due to speed? The Knight Bus. The main purpose of The Knight Bus is to bring students from one place to the other so it wouldn't cause alarm if a multitude of students ride it. Why Knockturn Alley? The Ministry guards it but not the shops closer to Diagon Alley. This is a perfume shop and one that doesn't do very well because you're a driver at night. The potion is sold in perfume bottles which masks the original scent. It is given to females as a present and once sprayed it makes them lustful, but since it is only sprayed and not ingested, it doesn't have the full effect. Stronger minds are able to resist and can acknowledge what is happening to them. That's your mistake there."

The man chuckled. Hope, Sherlock remembered. He had told him when Sherlock rode the Knight Bus alone. It did not really matter. He would forget the name in the morning.

"You're a smart boy, Mr Holmes," Hope said. "He was right about you."

"He?"

"You've got a fan. Well, _fans._ But I work for just the one."

 _Steady voice, eyes focused, not lying._ "This fan has a name, of course."

"Yes."

"You're going to tell me." _Hands in pockets, small object inside, two._ "But you have a proposition."

Hope grinned, showing all of his teeth. He extracted his hands from the pockets of his coat and laid out two small bottles. Inside each was a thick black liquid. Sherlock unscrewed one and took a sniff. No scent greeted him.

"Black Draught, no antidote, five seconds until death, enough time to say a name," Sherlock muttered, putting the bottle down once more. "But one's safe."

"Good, good."

"And if I don't drink?"

A wand was pulled out. _Eleven inches, holly, must be unicorn hair._ Sherlock rolled his eyes. Typical."You have a wand as well, Mr Holmes," Hope told him. Sherlock reached for his own wand and laid it on the table. He did not miss the way Hope's eyes stared at it hungrily, did not dismiss the anxiety in them.

"But you're not going to use it. You like a challenge don't you?"

"You are aware that I don't need a wand to blast you to the other side of the room."

"Oh yes. But the Ministry won't like that, won't they? You're too strong for your own good without a wand to direct your magic. Might lose control and end up not just killing me, but others as well. Azkaban ain't a good place for someone like you."

"You've done your research."

"Your fan's very persistent."

Sherlock sighed and took his wand back. Hope did not. He pointed it at Sherlock, aimed it at his chest. "You know they still won't love you," he told him. Hope's eyes narrowed. "You're doing this because you need the money to win your children back from your wife who comes from a well-to-do family. I saw the picture on the dashboard. It's not going to work."

 _Anger, hurt._ Hope gritted his teeth. "Less talking, more guessing," he growled. Then he smiled. "Come now. Smart boy like you can cheat death, can't you? Two potions, completely identical. Can you pull it off, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock stared at him then at the bottles. Identical in appearance, but seemingly so. There was always a give-away. Sherlock weighed each bottle in his hands. "This one," he said, pushing the other bottle toward Hope. Hope smiled. _Strained, nervous, not at all confident._ Now that Sherlock had reversed the position of the bottles countless of times, Hope was no longer sure which was the poison.

 _You can die, you know._ His wand seemed to burn in his pocket. Absent-mindedly, he brushed his fingers against it.

_No scent, very dark, consistency of condensed milk._

He looked at Hope who stared back.

_You won't die. You picked the right bottle._

_But if you do, you're not coming back as a ghost. You're no coward._

_But then you won't be able to continue solving Father's death._

He blinked. _You left John in the restaurant. Idiot!_

Sherlock lifted the bottle to his mouth. Hope did the same. _Cold._ The rim brushed against his lips, wetting it slightly.

_Sweet._

" _Everte Statum_!"

Sherlock spat the small bit of potion that had entered his mouth at the same time as Hope was thrown backwards. Something warm and wet splattered his front, and the metallic scent of blood entered his nostrils. "Oh shit oh shit oh shit," someone stammered beside him.

"Wh—"

"You idiot!" He was roughly pulled from the chair. Sherlock wiped the scant drops blood off his face and stared. An ashen-faced John glared back at him. _John's here._

_Mycroft's doing._

"That was poison, wasn't it? Shit, I almost forgot Alohomora. If I hadn't remembered it and unlocked that door in time—I didn't kill someone for you for nothing!"

Sherlock followed John's gaze to where to Hope lay. A large jar lying on top of the shelf behind them had crashed on him and bits of glass impaled his skin. The bottle in his hand was also crushed and the dark liquid oozing out of it hissed, burning the carpeting. Hope was wheezing but it would only be a matter of time before death caught up with him.

"The name, what is it?" Sherlock demanded, pushing past John.

Hope coughed. Blood bubbled from his mouth and dribbled down his chin.

"The name!" Sherlock yelled. He would have grabbed Hope but the shards of glass told him to back off. "You're dying but I still have time to hurt you!" He put his foot down the man's stomach which had sustained the most injury. A high-pitched squeal escaped Hope, drowning out John's cries.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?!"

"The name! Say it!"

"MORIARTY!" Hope screamed before his head dropped, his blank eyes staring straight ahead.

"Don't smile," John muttered. "That's not decent."

"You killed someone and you talk of decency." _Moriarty. Never heard of it. Must do research._

"I didn't mean to! I only meant to knock him backwards." John paled even more. "Am I going to Azkaban?"

"It was self-defence." Sherlock whipped his phone out. "I'll explain everything to the Aurors."

* * *

The Aurors arrived five minutes later, pouring in the room in twos and threes. A man who looked remarkably like Lestrade stared at Hope then at the two boys for one moment before throwing his hands up. "I told you a million times, Sherlock, no going after the criminals! I'm risking enough by letting you solve cold cases."

Next to him, Sherlock rolled his eyes. There was a drop of blood on his temple that the cleaning spell John had cast on him must have missed. "You're too slow," he complained.

"Well, you should be in school!"

This exchange went on for quite a while. John didn't even know that he had fallen asleep until someone was shaking him awake. A woman with bright green eyes smiled down at him. "Let's get you back to school, love," she said as she ushered him inside another car, this one smaller than Mycroft's. Sherlock was already seated, looking quite angry. It had little effect because of the garish orange blanket wrapped around his thin frame.

"Go to bed," Sherlock muttered when they reached their destination. John blinked at him blearily. "Headmaster Shacklebolt is still awake. Apparently, I have some explaining to do."

"A lot, actually," the Auror who'd followed them said. She bid John goodnight then walked down the hall with Sherlock who trailed behind.

The Common Room was empty but for one First Year who had fallen asleep in front of the empty fireplace. John climbed to his room, his steps languid now that the adrenaline rush had left his body. "John?" Bill muttered when he opened the door. He lifted his head slightly and peered at him. "Where've you been?"

 _Where haven't I been?_ John didn't bother to answer. He climbed in bed and let sleep take him.

* * *

It was in the Daily Prophet the next morning. John read the article as he and Bill walked to the Great Hall. "What a tosser," Bill said as he read over John's shoulder. John muttered an agreement. There was no mention that there had been two underage boys present in the crime scene.

The Great Hall was packed with students, some of whom had just returned from their homes. They were all talking about the murder in Knockturn Alley. A few of the girls looked aghast and John assumed that these were the same girls that had fallen victim to the scam Hope had made. He also noticed that some students, most of whom were Slytherins, were not present. John wondered what Sherlock and Headmaster Shacklebolt had talked about last night.

Speaking of the boy genius, John found him in his usual spot, sitting far away from the others. A cup of tea sat in front of him as well as a thick book but nothing else. "You go ahead, Bill," he said, and ignoring Bill's protests, he made his way to the Slytherin table.

"We made front page," John said when he reached him, his voice lowered so others wouldn't overhear. They were already attracting attention. Some Slytherins were glaring at John while the Ravenclaws nearby looked surprised to see a Gryffindor there, especially one that was talking to Sherlock Holmes. John ignored them.

Sherlock looked a little surprised to see him. His brows were furrowed and he pursed his lips. He opened his mouth to say something but John cut him off, "Look, you don't accidentally kill someone and pretend that nothing happened." The sane part of John asked him why he was okay with this. He had killed a man last night and he felt nothing but exhilaration. He should be worried, but he wasn't. He felt…normal.

"You're saying I owe you then." Sherlock dropped his eyes to his book, scowl in place. "If it's money you want I can provide you with plenty. Say how much and I'll give it to you."

John's gut twisted at that. "No," he said, making Sherlock look up once more. "I'm saying that…well, repeating that you're okay, Sherlock."

"Oh." Sherlock looked even more confused. _He's never had a friend before._ John winced inwardly then chided the sympathy that was crawling into his mind. No sympathy, he reminded himself.

"Mind if I sit down?"

"They do." Sherlock motioned to the rest of the Slytherins who were doing their best to repel John with disapproving glares. "But," Sherlock began, smiling slightly, "they're not important."

Laughing, John sat down. There, he spent the rest of the morning forcing Sherlock to eat something while at the same time ignoring the looks and whispers from the others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't really want to elaborate Sherlock's part. Kind of got sick of Hope when I wrote this chapter.


	5. Gryffindor Versus Slytherin

Soon enough, seeing Sherlock Holmes with John Watson stopped being a surprise. It became expected and when one wasn't present with the other, questions would be asked. The Slytherins disliked the pair, and whatever kindness Sherlock had won when he joined the Quidditch team, was forgotten because of John. As for the Gryffindors they tolerated it and even allowed Sherlock to sit with them during meals, though for the most part, they pretended he wasn't there at all.

John enjoyed Sherlock's company thoroughly. The Slytherin was annoying sometimes and highly demanding but his brilliance managed to outshine his negative traits. For John, at least. He liked how Sherlock would deduce the people around them then get that confused expression on his face whenever John talked about something in popular culture. "The Sex Pistols? Lestrade has some records," John would say and Sherlock would just snort and tell him that they weren't important enough to remember.

Secretly, John had written the first case he'd had with Sherlock in his spare notebook. It was _definitely not_ a diary. It was just that John was not as good at remembering things as Sherlock and while it wasn't something he'd forget, he still wanted to remember everything, down to the smallest details. If Sherlock noticed, he never pointed it out. His friend was always too busy making his strange experiments (John didn't even want to know what he did with those fresh Kelpie fingers) or solving cold cases that Lestrade's father sent him. He could always be found in the Astronomy tower, reading. Once, John had even seen him there with his pet raven. He stayed in one place more often than usual as Headmaster Shacklebolt had revoked his Hogsmeade visitation rights so that Sherlock wouldn't run off once more. As Sherlock complained little, John thought that he knew some other way to get there without being seen.

But Hogsmeade visits and cases were the last things on John's mind. The Quidditch season was approaching and Lestrade was practically hyperventilating at the thought. There wasn't even any time to study anymore. Every day, John could be found practicing in the field, whatever the weather.

"I quit already," Sherlock said on the day of the first match. A nervous Lestrade had rushed past them. He had locked himself in the boy's restroom where he was throwing up the breakfast he'd just eaten. "Allen's taken my place."

"I thought you said you wanted to play the first game!"

"Got bored. Changed my mind. And Shacklebolt said it's part of my punishment."

John winced inwardly when he saw the Slytherins glaring at Sherlock. "You're in big trouble. What did Dimmock say?"

"Dimmock didn't _say_ anything."

"What?" John set his fork down and stared at Sherlock. He was wearing a tie, something that happened rarely. John peered hard until he finally noticed the dark , finger-shaped bruises around Sherlock's neck, almost covered by the collar of his shirt. Anger welled in John and the urge to strangle Dimmock was so strong that he had to grip the edge of the table. No one hurt his friends and got away with it.

"We're required to attend the first match," John said when he'd calmed down. "Mike and Molly are watching with the Gryffindors. Sit with them."

"Ugh, Molly." Sherlock wrinkled his nose. It was no secret that Molly had a strong crush on Sherlock. It had gotten even worse when Sherlock had solved the Hope case. Molly had nearly been a victim by a Seventh Year named Orwell, but had managed to fight the potion and seek Sherlock's help.

"Just join them so you won't be torn to pieces." Sherlock opened his mouth. "And you can't not go. The professors are keeping an eye on you."

Sherlock muttered something unintelligible. John sighed and said, "You can bring your cases. I don't think they'll mind."

The sky was filled with fat white clouds when John and his teammates went to the field. Lestrade had returned with only a slight grey tinge to his skin, though there was still no mistaking the scent of vomit in his breath which he'd tried to hide with toothpaste. He cleared his throat several times to gather their attention. "Let's not get intimidated by the other team," he told them. "We're going to win this game and the next ones as well."

"Says the guy who spent two hours with his face attached to a toilet bowl," Bill, his fellow Beater, muttered beside John, making him giggle. Lestrade shot him a glare before he continued his speech.

Students were already cheering outside, most of whom were cheering for Gryffindor. John peeled back the flap of the tent they were in. With the binoculars borrowed from Sally, he spotted Molly and Mike among the Gryffindors with Sherlock between them, already engrossed in a book. John's grin faltered a little when he also spotted his older sister Harry. She had her arms around that Weasley friend of hers and they were both yelling something. John read her lips and realized that they were screaming 'Three C Watson'.

"That's just embarrassing," he groaned. He ducked his head when they were asked to step out. He could hear his accursed nickname amid the other cheers. It looked like Harry had found some friends to join in.

Each team did their best to glare at the other. John scowled at Dimmock as he and Lestrade shook hands. The Slytherin Captain sneered at him before they mounted their brooms. John made a mental note to knock him off with a Bludger.

"And they're off," Seventh Year Kitty Riley said, her already loud voice booming now that it came through the speakers. "Slytherin in possession. The Quaffle's with Valensi—closer now—but Lestrade blocks it! Gryffindor in possession. Donovan getting ready to score, watch out for that Bludger—Ten points for Gryffindor!"

John grinned as the students in red jumped and cheered. The Slytherins hissed and stamped their feet in indignation. "Come on, John," Bill said, lifting his bat up. John nodded and they joined the fray once more.

"Nice one!" Lestrade shouted when John managed to knock Dimmock off his broom. The Slytherin Captain had brought a fellow teammate down as well. Both boys shook their fists at John before they mounted their brooms.

Everything was going rather well. Sherlock's replacement was incompetent in the position and more than once did John spot the Snitch just hovering a few inches over Allen's shoulder. Unfortunately, he wasn't a Seeker and Liliah was often too far away for John to give her a head's up. John did his best to send Bludgers to as many Slytherins as possible, though Dimmock remained his favourite target.

John felt alive up there. Not even the cries of 'Three C Watson' could ruin his mood. He searched for his friends in the crowd during a respite, his eyes easily spotting the two yellow cloaks and one green in the field of red.

They were five points ahead of Slytherin when the trouble began. John had just managed to knock another Slytherin clear off his broom when Patricia Fortescue screamed beside him. "What's wrong?" John asked. The girl remained frozen and had John not knocked a Bludger away from her she would have suffered a serious head injury. He looked at the others and noticed that a few of the players had frozen as well. Even Lestrade was staring straight ahead, a shocked expression on his face.

Then John heard it—a flurry of wings beating rapidly. He turned but it wasn't enough. Something hard collided with him and John was falling.

Fortunately, it wasn't a hard fall. He landed on his back, his broom landing beside him. Dust clouded him, making him cough as people helped him to his feet. "Slytherin wins!" Kitty Riley yelled. John opened his eyes just in time to see Allen holding the Snitch. Liliah climbed off her broom, her face pale like Lestrade's.

"Thestrals!" Lestrade cried when they went back to the tent. John's back ached but it wasn't injured. Still, he chose to sit down while Lestrade was confronted by their teammates.

"There were thestrals on the field! They were panicking." Lestrade wasn't shaking, not really, but John could see that his pupils had contracted in fear. "It's a bad omen."

"Really, Lestrade, a bad omen? Something's just disturbed them." Sherlock had entered the tent with Mike and Molly in tow.

"What's The Freak doing here?"

"Shut it, Sally." John glared at her. Eventually, Sally rolled her eyes and turned away from them.

"We should have a rematch," Lestrade muttered. "It's not fair that Allen can't see them." Then he muttered something about winning the Quidditch Cup and the possibilities of winning the next match.

"It is rather peculiar," Sherlock admitted the next morning. The Slytherins and Gryffindors had Herbology together, a subject that Sherlock was surprisingly not good at. When it came to dealing with living creatures, Sherlock was not so adept. John wondered how he survived in Care of Magical Creatures without John to constantly remind him to just follow the instructions and not conduct experiments. More than once had Sherlock come to him with burned fingers and infected cuts. John would heal all of them to save the matrons the trouble of dealing with Sherlock.

"What is?"

"The thestrals getting frightened. They're not easily scared and as they do not reside in the deeper parts of the Forbidden Forest, they have no enemies." Sherlock was talking rapidly and whenever he did that, he moved his hands a lot. Currently, his right was enclosed around the green leaves of a mature mandrake. John slapped it away.

"Don't do that! And put your earmuffs on."

Sherlock complied but he kept on talking. As John already had his over his ears, he settled for reading Sherlock's lips. But it soon proved to be impossible because Sherlock was spitting out words like someone possessed.

"John, John, are you listening?"

"Sherlock, don't do that!" John righted his earmuffs just in time before the mandrakes were pulled out. Any later and he would have been killed.

Sherlock didn't apologize at all. John thought he would have forgotten all about it when they separated for their respective classes, but when they met again for dinner, Sherlock was still talking.

"Thestral hair," he was saying through a mouthful of pumpkin pie. For once, Sherlock was actually ravenous and John didn't dare interrupt in case Sherlock might realize he was putting food in his mouth, "It's a wand core, meaning that a human frightened them off. Possibly it was unsuccessful as they're hard to appease and usually, to get even one strand, you have to kill the thestral. Doing so by force brings a curse on you and tampers the wand. Mine works perfectly well so it means that the thestral who gave the core succumbed to the one who took it."

"Your wand core is a thestral hair?" Trust Sherlock to have an extremely rare wand. John had seen it countless of times before, an elegant black wand of twelve inches that usually served as a stick for Sherlock to scratch himself in hard to reach places. Sherlock was careless with it. He would often leave it on the table, and John would have to chase after him so he could give it back.

"Pay attention, John. Of course it is. It's a rare and powerful wand and I'm not surprised that Hope had been eyeing it. And I—" Sherlock paused for a while and John was startled to see that his mind seemed to have stopped working. A confused and slightly pained expression crossed his face but it was gone in an instant. "Anyway, your wand is strong as well. Phoenix feather, right?"

"Hippogriff, actually."

"There's always something. Your wand is almost as rare as mine and—" Another pained expression crossed his face but this one took longer to disappear. Lestrade who was sitting across them noticed.

"You okay, Sherlock?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock spat, suddenly hostile. He stood up so quickly that he knocked back a few goblets. Some of the Gryffindors complained and glared at him but Sherlock took no notice of them.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm fine, John," he muttered. "I just need a moment."

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was seated at his desk when Anthea announced the arrival of his brother. He had anticipated it, had even thought that it would come much sooner. He straightened himself and rested his hands on his desk, then waited.

He did not have to wait long. With a burst, the double doors opened and Sherlock stormed in. Soot clung to his hair and clothes. His rage was palpable and Mycroft could sense a tantrum just waiting to erupt. He had to tread carefully.

"Sherlock," he greeted, cordially enough.

"Git," Sherlock snarled. His wand wasn't drawn but that mattered little. Sherlock wouldn't hesitate to hex him, wand or no wand. "Give it back to me. I know you have it, Mycroft."

"It was for the best."

"I have every right to know!" Sherlock howled. One of the Sneakoscopes on the desk shattered in a million pieces. Mycroft sighed.

"Calm yourself and I'll give it to you."

"You shouldn't have tampered with my memory in the first place," Sherlock growled. He was still glaring but he took a seat. The windows stopped shaking, signalling that the worst was over. Mycroft cast a repair spell on the broken Sneakoscope and leaned back to observe his brother. Sherlock's head was down so that Mycroft couldn't see his face.

"I did it to protect you," he said, his voice gentle. "If you'd known everything, you would have gone after them. You would have been reckless."

"He was my father, too. I deserve to know everything, especially since I was there." Sherlock looked up. He was doing his best to keep his expression blank but Mycroft could see the vulnerability there. "You haven't found out who they are," he said. Mycroft winced inwardly at the flat tone. Months ago, it had been a question, not a statement.

"I'm afraid not."

"My wand…they wanted it. Father protected me. They murdered him. Correct?"

"Correct. There are wizards out there who want to recreate the Elder Wand and yours has the most potential."

"Same wand core and mine's currently the only one in existence. But mine's not strong and won't be until I cast the Killing Curse on someone. Thestral hair is attracted to death and nourished by it."

"Correct again."

There was silence between them. It wasn't new. He had been close to him once but things had changed when Sherlock grew up. It also didn't help that Mycroft had accepted the job the Ministry had offered him. It didn't matter that Mycroft had only accepted it because he wanted to make sure they left Sherlock alone. It was better that he was the one watching over him instead of hundreds of strangers who, at one slip-up, would gladly ship him off to Azkaban. Or worse, to a government facility. But to Sherlock it was betrayal, plain and simple.

"I can get a new wand," Sherlock muttered. "I can toss the old one or just hand it to you."

"No. I discussed it with Ollivanders. The one you have is the only one capable of keeping you in check. There's a reason it chose you in the first place. And not everyone can use it, either." Sherlock frowned even more. "You wouldn't want to lose the connection you have with that friend of yours either. John Watson?"

"Connection?"

" _Priori Fraternitas._ It's when—"

"When the sources of the wand cores had a close relationship," Sherlock finished. "They're determined to protect each other in any way they can. That's how John found me that night, right? It wasn't you."

"I helped a little. The thestral who gave your wand core was a thestral who fought in the Battle of Giants, alongside a hippogriff named Buckbeak, the same one from the Potter Age. The two became friends after that. How they ended up giving a part of themselves to Garrick Ollivanders is beyond me and I'm sure even the current Ollivanders can't tell you exactly as it wasn't him who fashioned the two wands.

"At first it was only rumour that another wand with a thestral wand core had been made. Garrick Ollivanders had hidden it in his shop shortly after he made it as he was reluctant to destroy his masterpiece. The one that John Watson has, he didn't bother to hide as it isn't as dangerous—at least, not without yours. But when John bought his and it didn't react, Ollivanders knew it was waiting for something. You entered the shop two days after John and you tried the most difficult ones but they wouldn't work with you. Ollivanders found the box containing your wand and he knew it was powerful but he didn't know about its full capacity. Not many people know how dangerous it is."

"It's because you cleaned the texts about The Elder Wand. You deleted the details." Sherlock's tone was accusing. _You're always minding other people's business._ He did not have to say the words. Mycroft could hear the undertone.

"And if we hadn't then everyone would have tried to recreate it," Mycroft retorted. "Yours is the only one in existence and it will remain that way. We can't take it away from you. We still have no idea how word spread that your wand is possibly the next Elder Wand and I'm trying my best Sherlock. Father did, too."

Sherlock said nothing for a while. He sat there with his hands in a steeple beneath his chin, his pale eyes devoid of emotion. "I still want it," he said when he was finished thinking. "Hand it to me."

They'd been fooling themselves into thinking Sherlock wouldn't catch up. Mycroft stood and walked to the shelf where hundreds of vials were kept. He did not have to search for long. The memory of their father's murder was trapped in a clear blue bottle. He took it gently then handed it to Sherlock.

"Wait a little while before you restore it," he told his brother.

Sherlock said nothing. Mycroft moved back to his desk. When he looked back, Sherlock had gone.

* * *

John did not expect to see Sherlock in the next games as they were no longer required to attend them. Still, he wished he would show up in the next match. He'd been acting strange lately. Sherlock had once told John that there were days when he said nothing at all, but that had never happened until now. And when John did see him, he would often smile. It was the smile that bothered John the most. To an outsider, it was normal, but John could tell it was an act. It was too bright and lacking in awkwardness. It practically screamed fake.

"Nice play there, Watson," someone said as he finished another session of Quidditch practice. He turned around. Sarah Sawyer, a Ravenclaw older than John by one year, stood in front of him. She grinned and John found himself smiling back.

"Shouldn't you be pissed that we might beat your House? Next game's Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw."

"Don't feel so cocky, John. You guys lost against Slytherin, remember? You'll have to beat us to get that Cup and our Seeker's better than Allen." She laughed a little then waved him goodbye. "See you later, Three C."

_Damn it, Harry._

John returned to the hoard of Gryffindors crowding Lestrade. Harry and the other Seventh Years were surrounding the Quidditch Captain, singing Happy Birthday in hoarse voices. John grinned. Not even his birthday could stop Lestrade from calling them in for practice. The Sixth Year was trying to tell them that he didn't want a party but as Lestrade was well-known, John knew the Gryffindors wouldn't listen to him.

It seemed even the prefects forgot their duties because when they returned to the Common Room, firewhiskey was being passed around. John took one look at the festivities and decided that it was too much. He'd wished Lestrade a happy birthday already and his presence wouldn't be missed. Besides, he didn't really want another nickname and there was no way he would get away without having a drink if he stayed there. He snatched a Butterbeer from the table then left the room quietly.

_Find Sherlock._

It was a little strange how easy it was to find him when John put his mind to it. He'd only have to think about him and his location would pop up in John's mind. The Astronomy Tower was Sherlock's favourite. John climbed up, making sure he was quiet so Filch wouldn't hear. It was dark the way up but it got lighter when John reached the top.

"Hey," he greeted. Sherlock was seated a little too close to the edge for comfort. The light came from the tip of his wand which was resting near his thigh.

"What have you been up to all week? I've barely seen you."

"Experiment," Sherlock muttered. He had his violin in hand. Dominic Maestro's had returned it when Sherlock's Hogsmeade visits were officially called off. A high-pitched wail was brought forth when Sherlock dragged the bow across the strings.

"Oh…Well, it's Lestrade's birthday. There's a party in the Gryffindor Common Room. Um, not your thing but if you want some food..."

"Not hungry."

"Yeah, right." He took a seat next to Sherlock, placing one hand on the other boy's shoulder and forcing him to move backwards. Sherlock rolled his eyes but complied so that his feet were no longer dangling over the edge.

"So what's bothering you?"

"Nothing."

"Don't give me that. You've been sulking since Monday."

"I do not _sulk_."

John took one look at him. Sherlock looked like a spoiled little kid with his brows drawn together and his lower lip jutting out. He chuckled as he opened the bottle. "Want some?" he asked after taking a swig.

"No."

"Have you eaten anything today?"

Another frown. "No."

" _Sherlock_." John sighed and passed a hand over his face. It was Harry all over again. But unlike with Harry, Sherlock's problems had to be guessed. "Alright, if you don't want to talk about it, I won't push it. But you're eating something tonight."

"I'm fine, John. Nothing's wrong."

John was good at many things and one of these things was reading Sherlock Holmes. He didn't have to be a genius to know that Sherlock was lying. A bit of fear washed over John but he forced it away. If things went from bad to worse, he'd find Sherlock. He always did.

"Okay."


	6. The Curse of the Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Le fluff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Studying for my history finals but here, alas, an update

Pretty soon winter arrived and covered the world with a stark white blanket. It was cold enough that the Great Lake had frozen over, though none dared to skate on it. The Giant Squid enjoyed testing the strength of the ice by knocking its tentacles against the surface. Fewer students could be found lounging outside, and those that stayed too long would come in with hideous head colds. In fact, most students were plagued by the Wizard's Cold, a common sickness that had them doing involuntary magic upon sneezing. The Infirmary was often packed with people looking for a cure. The older ones were more fortunate as they didn't have to wait for too long. John was more than capable of healing them with a potion Mike had helped him brew. Together, the two of them sold the antidote in small jars for two Sickles and thirteen Knuts.

They did their business in a classroom that held Arithmancy classes for Sixth Years. Even a few of the more desperate Slytherins came, although John never did see Anderson, the boy who was constantly tormenting Sherlock, step inside. John wouldn't have sold any to him, anyway, at least not until he was on the verge of death.

"Get well soon," John said as he collected the money. It hadn't been his idea. It was actually Sherlock who suggested it and Mike thought that it was a good plan as the money would also cover the cost of the ingredients. There was actually more than enough to cover their expenses and it would still be a lot when he and Mike split it.

"A jar, Doctor." It was Sarah Sawyer. John blinked then smiled when he realized that she had used a Muggle term. Perhaps Sarah was Muggle-born. John looked at her pretty face, and realized that he did not know much about her, other than the fact that she was smart and pretty and that he had once caught her reading Grey's Anatomy.

Someone nudged him, breaking him out of his trance. Flustered, he handed Sarah the medicine then turned to the person who'd pushed him.

"Bored."

Of course.

"Wait, I'm not yet done."

"Leave it to Mike," Sherlock grumbled. He was paler than usual and there were dark shadows under his eyes. The tip of his nose was red and every now and then, he would wipe it with a black handkerchief that looked suspiciously like the one John owned. It was only a cold and as Sherlock had already taken some medicine, it wouldn't get any worse and turn to a Wizard's Cold. But from the way Sherlock was acting, it was like he already had tuberculosis.

"I can finish up here," Mike replied, still facing the cauldron. "We're already running out of the stuff anyway. I'll just give you your share later."

"If it's not too much trouble, then." He glared at Sherlock who stared back defiantly. The effect wasn't as strong because of the tiny drop of mucus threatening to fully slide out of Sherlock's nose.

Teachers were busy decorating the school for the holidays. Sherlock mocked each decoration, from the golden bubbles floating above them to the massive Christmas tree in the Great Hall. Headmaster Shacklebolt was supervising, looking as dignified as ever in his gold-and-silver robes. He eyed Sherlock suspiciously as they passed and John quickened his pace so the Headmaster wouldn't call them over.

"So where are you staying for the Holidays?" John asked as they stepped outside. They were blasted with cold air that made John shiver despite the numerous jumpers covering his torso. Sherlock tied his scarf tighter around himself so that his nose and mouth were covered. John ducked to avoid getting hit by a snowball. The First Years were the ones who enjoyed snow the most and would even risk pneumonia just to play in it. "Going back to that big house of yours with your big brother? Any boring formal dinners?"

As soon as he said it, John realized his mistake. Anger flashed across Sherlock's face. "I'm staying here, actually," he replied, eyes narrowed into slits.

"I thought you were into that family dinner thing," John said, choosing his words carefully. Lestrade once told him that Sherlock had tantrums, massive ones that were often destructive. Lestrade's theory was because Sherlock was emotionally stunted but sometimes he would be pushed to his limit and he wouldn't know how to handle his feelings healthily. So far John had never seen him explode, but you never knew with Sherlock.

"I was, and never will be, 'into it'. Mycroft only forces me to. But he has no hold on me this year."

"How come?"

John could almost see an invisible wall forming between them. Sherlock walked away briskly and John had to run to catch up with him.

Sherlock was staying. John felt a pang of guilt. He had been spending a lot of time with Sherlock and it didn't sit well with him that his friend would be left all alone during the holidays. John was going home with Harry as usual. It hadn't bothered him before but that was before he befriended Sherlock who depended on him, even though the other boy would never be caught dead admitting it.

"Why don't you come with me?" John asked, struck by the brilliance of it. His father wouldn't mind it if he brought someone along. Bill and Mike had slept over there during the summer. As for Harry, she found Sherlock weird but she wouldn't bother them much as she had a new girlfriend, a Hufflepuff named Clara.

But Sherlock snorted. "I'd rather not. Some of my experiments are too delicate to be moved and they need to be watched every three hours." He grimaced. "They wouldn't let me, anyway."

John didn't learn who 'they' were because Sherlock became quiet once more. John left him in front of the Slytherin Common Room before he went to his own (he had learned that Sherlock's fellow Slytherins would either try to molest him or beat him up when he passed by without company, and while John knew Sherlock could take care of himself, he couldn't shake off the image of people hurting his best friend).

Students were signing their names in the list of people who were going to stay in Hogwarts the next morning. John eyed the list and saw Sherlock's name above Lestrade's. Good, he thought, relieved. Lestrade was more of an older brother to Sherlock than a friend but at least he would watch over him and make sure no one was tormenting him while John was away.

"How come you're staying?" he asked Lestrade when he passed by him on the way to Divination. Lestrade was going to Transfiguration.

"My dad's dealing with some rogue wizards in Bulgaria and my mum has to go to this promotional party for Twilfitt and Tattings." He rolled his eyes. "You know how it is."

"Yeah." John was no stranger to having a busy parent. Ever since his mother left his life, his father had been working double to support two kids. John felt guilty because of that but he couldn't really tell his father to stop working so much because if he didn't, they wouldn't have enough to keep him at Hogwarts. Thankfully, it was already Harry's last year. His father would be able to relax once his sister graduated.

"Hey, careful of the mistletoes when you get back," Lestrade warned. "Teachers didn't listen to our petition. Apparently, Shacklebolt finds our embarrassment amusing."

The mistletoes were the most horrid Christmas decoration in the school. They looked like ordinary mistletoe but if you got trapped under one with someone, the damn thing would threaten to pour a disgusting fluid on you (last year it was ogre snot) until you kissed. The mistletoe would tell you what part of the person's face to kiss (it went easy on First and Second Years). If you were lucky, you wouldn't have to kiss the person on the lips, but you still had to do it for more than five seconds. John had been trapped under them many times before but thankfully he'd never had to kiss someone he didn't like, unlike Mike who'd had to kiss Anderson on the nose last year.

"Hey, John," a fellow Gryffindor greeted when they were finally finished with Divination. John's head was still cloudy from the sweet smoke upstairs but he didn't miss the wink the girl sent him.

"It's starting," he groaned to Mike who giggled.

"Bill's already gone ahead. Your sister, too."

"Jesus."

They rounded the corner and found Bill snogging a girl much taller than him. He didn't seem to mind the height difference and the girl didn't seem put off by the kiss. The mistletoe above them was already telling them that they could pull away now but they weren't listening. Lestrade stood in the background, trying to call them off while a fellow prefect told the younger students to divert their eyes.

"Look at that," John said, motioning to where Molly stood, her face turning red as a small, black-haired Slytherin kissed her cheek.

"Good show," John teased when the Slytherin boy went away, waving Molly goodbye. "That's a Third Year, Mrs Robinson."

"What?"

Clearly, Molly had never watched The Graduate.

"You didn't seem to mind."

Molly flushed even more. "He's in our year, actually. He just looks a little younger than the rest of us." She twirled her braid nervously then said, "Um, where's Sherlock? I mean, I haven't seen him around."

"Hopeless," Mike whispered in his ear. John stuck an elbow between his ribs, making him double over. "Sherlock's not really into these things," he said. Most likely Sherlock was in the Astronomy Tower, hiding himself. Given the opportunity to kiss him, many girls—and a small number of boys—would quickly drop the I-Can't-Stand-Sherlock-Holmes façade. It was that Veela heritage that made him so attractive. John knew Sherlock hated it when he wasn't using it willingly as it distracted people from his intelligence. If Sherlock could have his way all the time, he would put a paper bag over his head and not show his face until he needed to manipulate someone.

The mistletoes worked very hard. They had been placed early so that the students going home would still become their victims. By the third day, John had kissed a First Year Slytherin on the forehead, hugged his Defence Against the Dark Arts instructor (for staff and student, a hug was the only thing required. Mortimer Filch was, unfortunately, part of the staff), pecked a Gryffindor prefect on the cheek, and had even had the misfortune to be kissed by Lestrade on the lips. They had been walking together when it happened. Thankfully they had been alone in the hallway so no one saw save for the mistletoe, though John had the suspicion that Professor Binns had passed by.

"Just do it quickly," Lestrade had hissed, eyes darting right and left to see if anyone was coming. John had stared at Lestrade's face, and he had taken in the light fuzz on his upper lip and the faint spots on his cheeks. Lestrade was the epitome of the male species. John had then decided that he would never kiss Lestrade on purpose when the epitome of the male species pressed his mouth against his.

It had been unpleasant as Lestrade had nearly knocked John's tooth loose when he lowered his head. Also, Lestrade's deodorant had a strong smell and John had been forced to fight off the urge to sneeze the whole time.

"Never again," the Gryffindor Captain had muttered, wiping his mouth furiously with a sleeve.

Never again. But John certainly wouldn't mind being kissed right now. He was walking with Sarah and they were on their way to the library. John had been seeing her a lot lately. She was nice and she told the most hilarious stories. As it turned out, she was a half-blood, but like him, she lived in a Muggle town. Sherlock would never let him talk about a girl he was infatuated with so he told Bill and Mike and even Molly about her.

Sarah was laughing at a joke John had told when they both heard the familiar voice of the mistletoe. "Hold up you, two!" it said, reminded John of a game show host. "You ain't getting away without locking 'em lips together. That's right. I want a five-second liplock from you two or else I'm dousing you with today's specialty. And no pullin' away until I say so."

 _This is it._ Still, he put on a sympathetic face. "Sorry you're stuck with me," he said, wondering if he really did sound sorry. It didn't seem so as Sarah was giving him a sly grin.

"Five seconds only?" she said as she leaned closer. John's eyes fluttered close as the scent of her perfume hit him. Lilacs, he thought stupidly as her lips pressed against his.

The mistletoe was counting above them but John could barely hear it. Sarah felt so nice against him, warm and soft. She had wrapped her arms around his neck while his were placed on her waist, steadying her. John had no idea how long it lasted. It seemed to last forever.

But this wasn't so because when they pulled apart, startled by the sound of glass breaking, he and Sarah were suddenly soaked with a sour liquid.

"OH MY GOD!" Sarah shrieked.

"Giant's armpit juice," the mistletoe said happily. "Four point three seconds. Couldn't you two have waited?"

"Wrong. It was four point five, actually."

He knew that voice. John's eyes widened when he saw that it was Sherlock who'd made the noise. He was balancing several beakers in his arms, one of which had fallen at his feet. He was staring at them with a bored expression on his face, as if John wasn't drenched in a giant's month-old sweat.

"John, you stink," Sherlock pointed out. "Very badly."

John gritted his teeth and drew out his wand. " _Scourgify_ ," he muttered, cleaning both he and Sarah up.

"Um, I'll just go ahead," Sarah said, her nose wrinkled. Apparently the spell wasn't strong enough. John sniffed his hands. There was still a whiff of someone else's sweat on his skin.

"Wait!" John called but she was already hurrying away from them. Great, John thought. There was no way she was ever talking to him again. He scowled at Sherlock who was staring at him. He was muttering something under his breath.

"There," Sherlock said, unfazed by John's death glare, "you no longer smell like underarms."

John sniffed himself again. He smelled like clean laundry now. But still, it wasn't enough for his anger to fade. "Thanks a lot," he complained. "I really like that girl."

"She's boring."

"Oh, that's priceless!"

"But she is," Sherlock shot back. "Her intelligence is average, even for a Ravenclaw and she comes from a family of Healers and doctors, though none of them have ever done anything worth knowing about as I've never heard of her name and—"

"Will you just please stop talking for one second? So she's not perfect, so what? Not everyone can be like you. Healer, doctor, it doesn't matter! I'm sure it's hard for you to understand what with your rich family and everyone catering to your every need and your Daddy there to buy you all your things and tell you how you'll handle the family business…" John trailed off. His eyes widened when he realized what he'd just said. One of the unspoken rules of their friendship was that they wouldn't talk about the parents that were missing from their lives. It was John who'd initiated it as Sherlock had kept asking him about his mother. Sherlock wouldn't mention her, and John wouldn't mention his father. Simple.

Sherlock looked unfazed but John could see it in his eyes. Sherlock was livid.

"I'm sorry," John began, "Oh god, I shouldn't have said those things. Sherlock, I'm sorry. I'm an idiot."

"You are."

"I know, I know." He looked at the beakers. One of them was shaking slightly. First sign, Lestrade had told him. Carefully, slowly, John laid a hand on Sherlock's arm. To John's relief, the beaker stilled. Sherlock was still furious but they were out of the danger zone. For now, at least.

* * *

One of the things Mycroft had taught him long ago was to never tell anyone anything personal as your words could be used against you. He had been taught a lot of things to aid to his survival. His mother had taught him how to keep his emotions in check, though she, like many others, had failed to teach Sherlock how to _understand_ them. Mycroft had taught him how to manipulate people into doing what he wanted without using his looks. His father had taught him how to defend himself, both physically and magically. At a young age, he had also been taught his father's motto: Caring is not an advantage.

And it was not, at least, not for Sherlock Holmes. He was rude and selfish and he gathered the most embarrassing information from the people he met to use as a blackmail. He did not _share_ and he had never felt the urge to do so. Most people were too boring or too stupid for him. Most of the time, he barely even registered their existence.

But John Watson was another story. Sherlock knew that it was not just because of their wands' connection that made John different. John was so infuriatingly human. He ate three meals a day, he got tired easily, and his libido was just like his peers (though it was not as high as Bill Murray's). Still John managed to become interesting despite his human needs. Sherlock felt safe with John, something he had never felt before. Even at home, Sherlock had never felt safe. He was always checking on himself, keeping his emotions at bay so they wouldn't be channelled into unwanted magic. He was constantly being told that if he lost control of himself, they would take him away and he would either spend the rest of his life living in the Ministry headquarters or in a cell in Azkaban. There was also the option of killing him on the spot so he wouldn't be able to end the lives of others. It was unsaid but Sherlock knew it. He saw it in the people who checked on him yearly, their fascination towards him, like he was a new kind of species put on display.

He wasn't afraid of dying, not really. It was how he got his wand in the first place. Only a person who could face death could win it over.

What he feared was that someday, the Ministry might be right and that one day, he would accidentally murder someone with his rage. He was not as heartless as people—and he himself—believed to be. There were people he cared for. He cared for the Lestrades and Mrs Hudson of the Three Broomsticks who filled in the places his mother lacked skills in. He cared for Mycroft (though he would never admit it) and he cared for his mother, broken as she was. And he cared for John, a little too much in fact.

And John cared for him as well. It was hard to miss. He was always hovering over Sherlock, telling him to eat and to stop playing the violin long enough for him to get some rest. John was there to tell people off for insulting him and he was there so people wouldn't beat him up again. In four months, John had been able to do something that no one had ever been able to do before. He had managed to be Sherlock's friend. And as disgustingly pedestrian as the term was, Sherlock could not call John anything but.

They were good friends, best friends, even. But they did not truly talk to each other, which was something Sherlock had been told friends did. John did not share with him the stories about his broken relationship with his mother and how his family was struggling with money and Harriet's alcoholism. John did not really have to talk to him about these things as Sherlock could read him easily. But John in turn, could not read him, at least not the way Sherlock could recount the lives of people at a glance. And because John avoided talks like that, Sherlock never told him about how his mother's sanity was slowly waning and how the Ministry tailed after him day and night. It seemed that he would never be able to tell John how his brother had tampered with his memory and that he'd taken it away and now that Sherlock had restored it, he could not get the image of his father being murdered out of his head no matter how hard he tried to delete it again. He had nightmares almost every night and Sherlock was torn between wanting to cast obliviate on himself and keeping the memory because he had promised his father that he would solve it, that he would find out who killed him and he would take care of his wand so his father wouldn't have died for nothing.

Sherlock did not mind not being able to talk to John about these things because he had never had someone to talk to before. Still, there were days when he wanted to answer John's questions of 'are you okay?' because no, Sherlock definitely wasn't okay, though he suspected that this was normal because he couldn't remember an incident when he had been anything but the opposite of being okay. But John wouldn't want to hear about these things because even though he kept asking Sherlock if everything was alright, Sherlock knew it was just to be polite. John wouldn't understand.

"Are you feeling alright?" John asked and Sherlock had expected the question because John had been asking that a lot of late. They were in the Great Hall, waiting for the teachers to check and make sure none on the list of people staying was sneaking out. Sherlock had been forced to go down by John to say goodbye though Sherlock knew that it was really so Lestrade could keep an eye on him. As one of the three prefects staying, Lestrade was kept busy by helping the teachers sort out the students.

Sherlock said nothing.

"I got you a gift by the way," John was saying as he stood up, no doubt looking for his sister, "I'll owl it to you on Christmas so you won't guess what it is already."

Silence.

He didn't want John to leave. He wanted John to stay and distract him because nothing else was working. Not the violin, not his experiments. Not even Anderson's stupidity.

"Are you sure you're okay?" _Worry._ John frowned at him. A hand pressed against the side of his neck, checking his temperature. His cold had gone down days ago. John had not forgotten but he anticipated its return.

At that moment, Sherlock applied one of Mycroft's teachings. He lied.

"I'm fine, John."

And if he lied enough, he might be able to trick himself into thinking that it was the truth. These emotions were muddling his brain and he did not know what to make of them. He was upset because he kept remembering his father's death, he was angry because he could not tell who the people who did it were, he was furious because of what Mycroft had done to him, and he was guilty because he refused to come home and see his mother. These emotions confused him and as there were so much it was getting harder and harder to keep his unfeeling façade. There was one that won over the others and Sherlock hated it the most and wanted it to go away. It was the one that came when John was not around and Sherlock hated it because it made him feel that he was too dependent on the other boy. But he could not deny it for what it was and this simple acknowledgement made him hate it even more.

Sherlock Holmes felt lonely.

All of a sudden there was a noise, a pop, and twenty-three mistletoes appeared in thin air. Shacklebolt was laughing while students shrieked, some with happiness, others with annoyance. Sherlock did not have to look up to know that one was hanging over him and John.

"Shit," John hissed, looking up. A faint blush dusted his cheeks and the bridge of his nose and it distracted Sherlock for a few seconds. John was a good distraction sometimes.

"I'll go easy on you two," the mistletoe said. The voice was female, maternal, and Sherlock remembered Mrs Hudson. He decided that he would go and visit her later. There were many hidden passages in Hogwarts. Avoiding Shacklebolt would be a little hard but that was alright. It was challenging and challenges were distracting.

"Just one kiss for the black-haired fella from you, blondie," the mistletoe was saying, "Forehead, please, unless you want to take it to the next level."

"No taking it to the next level," John muttered, his head down but his eyes looking to the left where Lestrade, Bill, and Mike were laughing at them.

"Sorry."

"It's fine."

"You sure?"

"You have a choice."

"Er, I'd rather not smell like sweaty socks."

 _Soft. Warm. Slightly rough surface. Chapped lips. Must be from the cold._ Sherlock kept his eyes open, his vision filled with the oatmeal jumper John was wearing. He could hear John's friends taunting them. Sherlock tuned them out and counted the seconds.

_One_

_Two_

_Three_

_Four_

_Five_

"Okay, dearies, you can stop now."

_Six_

Sherlock blinked.

_Seven_

"Honey, you can stop now."

_Eight_

Some people were staring.

_Nine_

"John?"

_Ten_

John pulled away then resumed looking for Harry. John had kissed him longer than was necessary.

They did not talk about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little ooc but they're teenagers and this is the first long Sherlock story I've ever written so...


	7. Sent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not dead nor did I jump off a building and followed Benny but I did sprain my wrist, lol, motorcycles and I don't get a long, apparently. My sister wrote this chapter with me. She played John, I played Sherlock.

**To Sherlock Holmes**

**Slytherin House,**

**Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry**

 

I did warn you that I'm going to write to you so here, a letter. Okay, I shouldn't have written that because I can just see you saying, "John, you point out the obvious, too much." Just ignore that. Anyway, it feels pretty weird without you here. I guess I've gotten used to your badgering me to act as a test subject or to dissect a Nogtail for so you (NEVER AGAIN, SHERLOCK!) can do another one of your weird experiments.

Things are going well here even though it's a little boring. Harry's not bothering me much—she's too busy keeping contact with Clara. I told dad about you, by the way. I didn't tell him about that thing with Hope since he might have a coronary but I did tell him that you solve cases. He said he'd like to meet you and that maybe you can come over sometime, though I guess that it will be when Mike and Bill aren't visiting since you don't like other people's company.

**_-John_ **

* * *

**John,**

 

 

I do not like writing letters as I find the act tedious, but as you've already sent me one and you have made it clear that you will keep sending me letters, I am obligated to reply. I am bored as well. My ingredients for my experiments have run out and I can no longer sneak out as Shacklebolt caught me last night. He did not give me detention but he is keeping an eye on me. Many people are keeping an eye on me and I blame you, John, because it was clearly your idea to tell Lestrade to tail after me like a dog. I did my best to make his presence beneficial but as it turns out, not everyone is willing to be a test subject like you. I performed a new spell I invented on Lestrade, a stronger colour-changing charm than the one Professor McCormic introduced to us. Unfortunately, I miscalculated its strength and I managed to turn Lestrade silver so that now, he looks quite like the armours that line the hallways. Lestrade did not give me detention nor did he take any points from my House, but he was definitely not pleased by the unnatural colour. The dried blood in the centre should be enough to tell you what form of punishment he gave me. He took away my wand as well, which is why I could not perform Episkey on myself. I am not adept with minor healing spells, even with a wand. I may have deleted that information from my mind palace long ago. Wishing is irrational but I cannot help but wish that you are here, John, because my nose is bleeding heavily and it is so irritating.

You can drop the formalities, by the way. Your letter did not even reach the dungeons. Your father's owl was smart enough to deliver it to me while I was in the tower when I was searching my notes for a counter-spell for Lestrade. People are beginning to call him 'The Tin Man' which the Fat Friar informed me is a fictional character from a Muggle story called The Wizard of Orcs. Seeing as you live in a Muggle town, I see no reason why you shouldn't understand why they refer to him as such.

**_-SH_ **

* * *

**December 24**

 

**To Sherlock Holmes**

**aka An Idiot Who Is In VERY BIG TROUBLE,**

**The Astronomy Tower or bugger knows where,**

**Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry**

 

 

WHAT DID YOU DO TO LESTRADE?

I have told you countless of times before, Sherlock, that you should NEVER experiment on a person until you're sure it won't backfire. That's why I helped you capture all those gnomes, remember? Or have you managed to kill all of them already?

You deserve to be punched. I cannot believe you turned Lestrade into a walking statue. You better find an antidote or else I will make you watch James Bond movies with me and I won't care if you think they're dull. I'll strap you to a chair and place you in front of the telly. I think it's better if I'll leave you alone, as well. You'll be screaming your head off about how much you hate the movies and I'll be outside, not listening to the poor, maltreated detective.

You shouldn't think of this as a reward because what you did to Lestrade was a bit not good. But since you might go ballistic (or are already going ballistic) I've taken the liberty of going to Diagon Alley and buying you stuff from the Apothecary. Don't worry, I used the money Mike and I made selling those cold potions. There was too much and it felt kind of sleazy having them since what we did is against the rules (you're making that face, aren't you? That I-Can't-Believe-You-Acknowledge-Something-So-Pedestrian-As-Rules expression).

And it's The Wizard of Oz, not The Wizard of Orcs. I know you grew up in a pureblood family but I still can't get over the fact that a ghost who's centuries old knows more about it than you do. I really need to pull your head out of a cauldron long enough for you to register things that any decent human being should know.

PS: I miss you, you dolt, and wishing isn't irrational.

PPS: Can you have another bird deliver your letter, particularly a nice owl? Your raven nearly bit my hand off. Do you Holmeses always have killer birds deliver your letters? I think I remembered when I was a First Year I saw an eagle following your brother around. Can't you guys be any less dramatic?

PPPS: Keeping the formalities just to piss you off since I can.

**_-John_ **

* * *

****

**John,**

 

I am not an idiot and I am no longer in trouble. I have managed to create a counter spell and Lestrade is no longer silver with the exception of his hair. The staff and even Shacklebolt have tried to revert it to its original colour but to no avail. Lestrade considered going to St Mungo's to fix it but I do not think he will do it anymore as many females complimented the change in his appearance. It makes him look not so pedestrian, and while Lestrade is not wise—at least not compared to me—the new hair colour gives him the appearance of having a very high IQ. He is happy about it now and has even handed me back my wand and healed my nose for me.

As for the gnomes, you are correct in speculating that they are dead. I mixed Red Cap's blood in their food to see how they would react. They became violent as I had expected, but to the extent of killing each other most gruesomely. I have taken the liberty of taking pictures with my camera phone so you may see how fascinatingly morbid the battle was. I am currently cleaning the cages in the Astronomy Tower as I'm writing this which explains why the parchment smells strongly of soap. I expect you to help me capture a few again, though there won't be any present until spring.

I do not want to know who and what James Bond is. If you strap me to a chair, I will be able to think of seventy-eight ways to escape. And I will burn all fifteen of your hideous jumpers. I will not even hesitate to do so. They are very atrocious after all.

The ingredients you sent me are not enough and are of bad quality, but I do appreciate the gesture. As for the raven, I cannot do anything about that. It is highly trained as horrible as it is at sending letters without trying to severe one of your appendages. It is not easy to train a raven, John, and I'm fortunate that it was given to me without that responsibility over my head. Also, we have never used owls. They are too slow and cannot defend themselves from predators and interceptors.

PS: Do you really?

**_-SH_ **

* * *

**December 25**

**To Sherlock Holmes**

**Still an idiot,**

**Don't know where but hopefully not forbidden,**

**Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry**

 

 

Happy Christmas! I know, I know. Holidays, fat men in red suits sliding down chimneys, and god forbid ~~mistletoe~~ gift-giving. Not your thing. But since there are a million people in the world who actually appreciate the holidays, me being one of them, you have no choice but to accept the fact that yes, Sherlock, this is actually happening, and I'll say it again just to spite you because I can do that without hearing you whine in my ear: HAPPY CHRISTMAS SHERLOCK CARLTON HOLMES!

Carlton, seriously? I thought Sherlock was bad enough already. Oh god, what's Mycroft's middle name? No, don't tell me. This letter might be intercepted and not only will he redact it, he might fly me to Tibet and leave me there. You probably already guessed that I found out from Lestrade. You pissed him off about something again. Where did the Stinksap come from, Sherlock? No, okay, I don't want to know.

Do you like my gift? I know you're not into tradition but I got you a gift anyway. It's not much, I know, and you're probably telling me I have no talent but it was the only thing I could think of that would surprise you. But if you don't like that, I got you a tin of honey biscuits as well. I know how much you like them. I mean, you didn't even leave some for me when I showed it to you for the first time. And those came from Switzerland, you hog. But I don't really mind since you're so skinny and all. Anyway, eat up so you can stop looking like a bowtruckle. If you're wondering how I know what a bowtruckle is remember that time you decided to gallivant to the Forbidden Forest because you wanted to hunt for some pixies? I walked with a limp when I stepped on that thing. Nasty little razor fingers those buggers got.

Still kind of quiet here without you and that's saying something. Dad's invited some friends from work and you'd never know they were from the Ministry. One of them is throwing up in the lawn right now. Someone brought over this wine from Brazil, I think, and it's pretty hard stuff which is NOT GOOD considering that Harry's in the house. Is it any better there or is it just as quiet and as painfully boring as always? I've never spent Christmas in Hogwarts but Molly did once and she told me it's fun as well. Did the teachers make the forks dance again?

I'm bored, Sherlock. And a little drunk which you can tell from my writing. It's not even dark but I'm turning in once I send this. I think I'll have a killer hangover in the morning.

PS: Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?

**_-John_ **

* * *

****

**John,**

 

Your grammar is horrible, your writing style boring, and I cannot help but feel a little remorse for our professors as your writing, even when sober, can barely be passed for a human being's. The way you wrote it, it sounds as if it is a highly-romanticised tale rather than a case. You have also called it 'A Study in Potions'. That was not an adventure, John. These cases do not need titles. Still, I must congratulate you because I have now found you a suitable profession that does not require top marks in your O.W.L.S. You can work for a magazine, perhaps that horrid tabloid called _The Poisoned Apple_ Molly and her peers keep leaving behind.

I appreciate the gesture, though.

My name is not ludicrous. It is perfectly acceptable in pureblood families. I do not make fun of your middle name which I know is Hamish. That name does not suit you at all. You are, and forever will be, John.

Mycroft's middle name is [redacted]. Fitting as it means prosperity and you saw how prosperous the fat sod is.

Lestrade is no longer pissed. Last I saw him, he was rather drunk and he disappeared with a prefect right after dinner was finished. No sexual intent. Lestrade looked too drunk to have an erection and the girl looked ready to pass out. I don't know if there were any dancing forks. I was thinking of more important things the whole time. I did not even eat then, but I am eating right now. Those honey biscuits are quite delicious and I don't even like sweets.

Do not drink so much. Alcoholism runs in your family. I can tell from the way you always hesitate when your friends offer you something more potent than Butterbeer.

PS: I suppose that I register your absence from time to time.

**_-SH_ **

* * *

**December 26**

**To Sherlock Holmes**

**Meh,**

**Hogwarts School of Witchkerf and Wizardry**

 

 

BAAAAD HANGOVER head pounding feels like my head ~~like hammer~~ about to split open but still writing to you and why I don't know why but can't leave you hanging

Your horrible that's the last time I'm ever giving you a present ~~you bas~~ ungrateful git and I will be a ~~hale~~ HEALER not a crappy writer for some dumb tabloid

Aren't you ~~weirder weirder~~ out that your brother is reading our letters? You aren't kidding about him being the minister are you? His ~~cre~~ He creeps me out

PS: ~~idiot sher~~ you sap

**_-John_ **

* * *

**December 30**

**John,**

 

I apologize for the late reply. Four days before your letter even arrived, my dear brother paid me a visit and roughly escorted me out of Hogwarts. As school authority was not immediately informed of my change of location, it took some time to have your letter resent. I am currently in our chateau in Paris where I will be forced to partake in the festivities for the coming New Year.

Ironic, is it not, that it is I who left you hanging?

A word of advice: do not attempt to write while recovering from a hangover. The lack of punctuation and the sloppy handwriting are enough to give me a migraine that possibly mirrors the one you had four days ago.

All is fine here. Mycroft is working and will only stop until the actually party, and the guests have yet to arrive. I am free to make my experiments without anyone breathing down my neck, though I do wish I had a few cases to solve. Lestrade's father is not yet back from Bulgaria so I do not expect to see him tomorrow night.

I saw a shooting star last night and I remember that you told me that I should make a wish whenever that occurs. A silly notion yet I did it all the same. I wished for a local murder.

None has happened yet.

PS: Attached are the photographs of the battle of the gnomes.

**_-SH_ **

* * *

**To Sherlock Holmes**

**Somewhere fancy,**

**Paris, France**

 

Finally! I thought you were mad at me for calling you a sap. I can't believe you're in France. And I've been stuck here for days with my dad and Harry and Aunt Mildred who smells like a drowned cat.

I'm jealous. I've never been to France. I've never been anywhere but here. Luckily, Mike's visiting here for the New Year. Bill's coming later tomorrow. It's pretty late here already and Mike's snoring in the spare bed in my room. We went to watch a movie a while ago. Horrid slasher film but you might have found it entertaining, or at least, so boring that you'd have been forced to say everything wrong about it.

You cannot wish for a murder, Sherlock. It's not decent.

Okay, I promise I won't write when I'm recovering from a hangover. I realized when I woke up that I wrote 'Witchkerf'. I'm never drinking again.

PS: Gross, Sherlock. They keep moving out of frame and all of a sudden something explodes and all I see is red. You made me throw up.

**_-John_ **

* * *

**December 31**

**John,**

 

Don't bother sending me a message through owl tonight. Your present should arrive with this letter. It took a few days to make hence the postponement.

PS: You will not become a good Healer if your stomach becomes upset at the slightest display of violence.

**_-SH_ **

* * *

What is this? Sherlock?

_Sent 31 December 11: 42 PM_

A phone, manufactured like mine so that it will work even when you're in Hogwarts. I thought it was obvious enough –SH

_Sent 31 December 11: 45 PM_

But this is expensive! And all I got you was a lousy notebook already written on

_Sent 31 December 11: 46 PM_

Money is not an issue –SH

_Sent 31 December 11: 48 PM_

John? –SH

_Sent 31 December 11: 50 PM_

John? –SH

_Sent 31 December 11: 52 PM_

Do you not like it? –SH

_Sent 31 December 11: 56 PM_

Stop panicking. I was in the loo. Of course I like it. I've always wanted a phone. But why give me one?

_Sent 31 December 11: 57 PM_

I prefer to text –SH

_Sent 31 December 11: 58 PM_

And you complained about the raven –SH

_Sent 31 December 11: 58 PM_

Oh. Wow, glad to know I'm not going to see your bird anytime soon

_Sent 31 December 11: 59 PM_

I meant...er, you know what I meant

_Sent 31 December 11: 59 PM_

Mycroft is calling me now. I'm afraid I have to go –SH

_Sent 1 January 12: 00 AM_

Oh. Well, Happy New Year, Sherlock

_Sent 1 January 12: 01 AM_

Happy New Year, John

_Sent 1 January 12: 10 AM_


	8. Moriarty's Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title says it all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that there are only two chapters left because I stopped at ten in my fanfiction account. I thought this was horrid which is why I didn't continue past ten. But after rereading it (and your reviews, oh god, I love you guys so much), my mind changed and I will FINISH this. (But really, I just want to play with Jim's character because I have so many plans for that lovable little shit)

"Can't you sit still, Watson?"

There were four of them in the compartment, plus several packages of sweets that were equal to two persons if you stacked them together. It was uncomfortable enough already but John was still moving, squirming in his seat as if a flobberworm had crawled up his leg and entered his trousers without his notice. There was actually no flobberworm present in the compartment. The only reason why John Watson was squirming was because he was anxious, and he had found out at some point in his youth that squirming in his seat was a good way to cope with stress. It was not, however, advisable when you were sitting next to one annoyed Bill Murray who was trying very hard not to lose in wizard's chess against Molly Hooper.

"John!" Bill hissed once, making the mistake of removing his eyes from the board. One of the black pawns shrieked before it was smashed to death by a bishop. "Damn it, are they always that destructive? _Reparo!_ "

"He's just worried because his boyfriend's not here," Mike answered, looking up briefly from his copy of _The Daily Prophet_. Arcadia Malfoy, a politician as far as John knew, stared at him from the headlines, talking to the reporters surrounding the podium.

"He's not my boyfriend," John repeated for the umpteenth time that day.

"But you're worried."

"I am not."

He was lying. John was worried because Sherlock had not shown up as he had promised. John had texted him several times but his texts went unanswered. He had half a mind to burst in the prefect's compartment and pull Lestrade out, but John knew Lestrade would hate him for ruining the first hours of his reign as Head Boy. He'd been puffing his chest out when John came upon him, making sure everyone saw his shiny new badge. It was not hard to miss, considering the fact that Lestrade, with his strange silver hair, was already quite noticeable.

"Yeah, right, all you've been talking about since you got here is 'Where's Sherlock?'" Mike rolled his eyes. "It's no wonder Sarah broke up with you."

John scowled. "We were never even going out!"

"And you never will thanks to your obsession with Sherlock."

John narrowed his eyes at Mike, the once shy, boring Mike who was now very smug because he had a girlfriend and John did not and it seemed, would be destined to be a bachelor for the rest of his life. He opened his mouth for an angry retort when the door slid open and Sarah stepped in, followed closely by Lestrade. She grinned at John and John found, to his slight dismay, that the minor heartburn he experienced when around her had faded completely. "Who's winning?" she asked as she slid in next to Molly, having to push aside a pile of Chocolate Frogs to do so.

"Molly, obviously," Lestrade said, ignoring the glare Bill shot in his direction. His silver hair was ruffled at the back and his badge was askew. Minus the slight bruise on his jaw, received after stopping a bunch of First Years engage in a fist fight, he looked debauched. He stepped over a box of Cauldron Cakes and sat down next to John. "Why's there so much food?"

"Bill flirted with the trolley lady. Her daughter's on shift today."

Lestrade sat up. "Really?" He rounded on Bill, his eyes widening. "Is she fit?"

"Never mind that," John said before Bill could reply. "Do you know where Sherlock is?"

Lestrade shrugged. "I wouldn't know. Butting in other people's business, maybe?" He opened a Chocolate Frog and grabbed the sweet before it leapt on John's face. The card inside was that of a young Hermoine Granger. John did not fail to see Lestrade pocket it, which was strange as he usually didn't take notice of the collectable cards. John had a feeling Hermoine Granger's card would later be used in activities that were most unpleasant. "But I doubt it. My dad's not stationed in the Scotland branch anymore. Got a promotion a few months ago. There are more Dark wizard up north than here."

"Really?" Sherlock wouldn't like that, John thought. Lestrade's father was the only Auror who could tolerate Sherlock, sometimes even encouraging him by giving him cold cases, though John often suspected that it was only because Mycroft got involved and could no longer stand being around Sherlock during his tantrums.

John frowned then tried to think of Sherlock's location once more. Something was blocking him and John did not like it. He'd always thought it uncanny that he could guess where Sherlock was but now he wished he could do it once more. He didn't think Sherlock was in any danger, but still. This was _Sherlock._ Anything could happen.

"Oi, look at this murder case." Mike handed the paper to them just as Bill's king was knocked clean off the board. John grabbed the paper quickly and Lestrade leaned closer to him to read it over his shoulder.

 

**Murder Case in Leaky Cauldron Now Handled By Aurors**

_Nineteen-year-old Henry Knight was sent to Azkaban for the triple murder of Jennifer Wilson, 34; Anthony Jenkins, 42; and Miles Pepperidge, 36. Knight was found standing over the bodies in Room 12 of The Leaky Cauldron by The Magical Law Enforcement Patrol at twenty-seven minutes past ten on the thirty-first of July. The three victims were murdered shortly after the Cruciatus Curse had been cast upon them. Traces of the both Unforgivables were found in Knight's wand. The case is now being handled by the Aurors of Scotland Yard. "This is the first time in sixty-eight years that anything like this has happened so it would be best if people don't enter The Leaky Cauldron for a while," said Head of Auror Office, Josiah Bones. Entrance from the Muggle world to Diagon Alley has been temporarily set in TerrorTours.(for full account of the manufacture of the temporary entrance in TerrorTours see page 15)_

"Christ, two Unforgiveables?" Lestrade shuddered. "But I guess you already know where Sherlock is, huh?"

John's worries were appeased when Sherlock showed up in the middle of the welcoming feast, making heads turn as he entered the room, fuming. He looked like he had not slept in days and had relied on an unhealthy amount of caffeine to keep him going. Sherlock didn't stop before him, though. Instead, he walked right up to Lestrade who was talking to a fellow Seventh Year.

"Who's Carter?" he demanded, glaring down at Lestrade.

"He's that new Auror who replaced Dad." Lestrade blanched, looking a little like Nearly Headless Nick. "Please tell me you didn't force your way in the Leaky Cauldron."

"I asked for your father. Instead this buffoon showed up and shoved me aside."

" _Sherlock!_ "

"I've handled cases before," Sherlock argued, his voice now loud enough to be threatening. Some people were beginning to look. John took it as a cue to get up and stop things before a professor descended on them. He eyed Headmaster Shacklebolt nervously. The wizard was engaged in a conversation with Professor Beckett but he would not be for long if Sherlock kept at it.

" _Cold_ cases," Lestrade said through gritted teeth. He'd been chatting up the girl beside him but it looked like any hope of getting a date had been extinguished by Sherlock's interference. John shot him an apologetic look before he grabbed Sherlock's arm and dragged him to where he usually sat whenever he bothered to eat anything. Ignoring the catcalls from the Slytherins, John forced Sherlock to take a seat next to Bill.

"Is that why you're late then?" John asked as he stared at Sherlock. Save for his hair, which was now longer than when he'd last seen him at the end of June, there was no change in Sherlock's appearance. The other boy had told him he'd spent the summer in France but it looked more like he'd spent the summer locked in his bedroom where the sun couldn't find him. "Listen, Lestrade's father's stationed elsewhere and there's a new Auror in his place. I highly doubt he'll be so lenient, and I know you're too proud to ask for Mycroft's help."

"Mycroft won't be helping me," Sherlock growled. He leaned closer to John so that he was the only one who could hear the next words. "This case isn't for them to handle. It's Moriarty. I know it."

They hadn't mentioned Moriarty's name once after the Hope incident. John had written it down in the notebook he'd given to Sherlock last Christmas, the one that Sherlock handed to him every time the genius had solved another case. As far as John knew, Sherlock had no idea who Moriarty was, other than that he was playing mind games with Sherlock. Fear sparked in John's gut but he didn't allow it to surface.

"Why do you think that?"

"Hope said Moriarty admires me and that he likes to test my intelligence. This case is too dramatic for any wizard with a grudge." Sherlock frowned, his brows furrowed. "It's not him, directly. He's too clever for that. I can tell he wants me to prove Knight's innocence."

"But how can you be _sure_?"

"I received a letter on the same day those three were murdered."

John nearly choked on his pumpkin juice. "You what?"

"A letter," Sherlock repeated impatiently. He rummaged in his pockets then fished out a crumpled scrap of parchment. John held his breath as he smoothed it on his lap, careful to keep it from the prying eyes of their peers.

In a neat script the note read:

 

_I've left you a treat, sweetheart. See, you've impressed me with that little show of yours last year and I thought, hmm, he's got potential. I know you're getting SO bored without my radiant presence! You're pining for me, darling. Would you like to play a game, Sherlock? I won't take no for an answer, love. Don't keep me waiting._

"Sherlock, we're talking of a murderer here," John hissed, crumpling the note once more in his fist as Nearly Headless Nick passed by. His hands were shaking slightly, "and one that's targeting you."

"You've never had trouble with murderers before. And you crave the excitement."

"I know and if I had my way, I'd be tearing off after criminals like those Aurors. But this one's different. You're saying he's playing games with you. It's dangerous, yes, but there's a limit even for us. Except for Hope, we've never actually gone to a crime scene. Well, _I've_ never actually gone to a crime scene. Leave it to the authorities for once. Tell your brother there's a madman after you."

"Are you mad?" Sherlock was staring at him as if he, John, truly were mad. "Why would you even say that?"

Now John was mad but not in the way Sherlock thought. He glared at Sherlock, hoping his gaze would bore holes in that surprisingly thick skull of his. "Oh, I don't know," he said, sarcasm dripping off his every word, "maybe it's because I don't want any of my friends dying in the hands of a madman who clearly has no other source of entertainment other than tormenting certain idiot savants."

"Friends?" Sherlock sneered. "I don't have friends."

It was not the worst thing that had ever come out of Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock had said a lot of hurtful things and John had even gotten the impression that if Sherlock was not able to insult at least one person every twenty-four hours, he would explode in a tiny million pieces. John himself had been called 'idiot', 'pedestrian', 'imbecile' and had even had all twenty-two of his jumpers vehemently insulted. But for some reason, this one stung, and John found himself trembling with the effort to keep from slamming his fist in his best friend's face. Sherlock merely stared at him with contempt.

"I can see why." There was no yelling on his part which startled Sherlock a little. John saw his eyebrows twitch and his frown deepen, meaning he was confused. Confused, but not at all sorry.

Dessert forgotten, John Watson stood up and abandoned the feast, attracting the attention of many as he did something he had never done before: walking out on Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

John hated the Hogwarts paintings. They were always commenting on your appearance or sending you off to rooms whose walls moved closer and closer together so that you would be reduced to a mass of crushed bones and bloodied skin. And they were always staring at you and whispering behind your back. John knew he should be sympathetic. He didn't think they had much entertainment considering that they were two-dimensional and didn't have a telly as most of them were eighteenth century oil paintings. But they were horrible gossips and John really was not in the mood to deal with any of them.

"Trouble in paradise?" The speaker was a man wearing a toga and was so large that, if put next to the Fat Lady, he would make her look like a high fashion model. He must have been a king. Not a Julius Caesar. The man didn't even look like he could lift his arms. "You've been moping."

John had a temper like most Gryffindors. He stilled then counted to five. Friend or not, if Lestrade saw him slashing the painting, he would still be put in the hands of one Mortimer Filch and John was determined not to tarnish his reputation of being a model student. "I have not," he said, sending the fleshy man a look that left him unfazed.

"You pass by here all the time with that handsome friend of yours," the painting drawled. "It's been two days and I haven't seen your fella."

"He's not my fella!" Another thing about the paintings in Hogwarts was that they liked to pair off students. Bill had once said that it might be how they got off. "They're two-dimensional and most of them haven't even been painted with a lower body," Bill had said, "Maybe they just imagine us playing Can-I-Unlock-Your-Chamber-of-Secrets."

John wasn't unlocking anyone's Chamber of Secrets, least of all Sherlock's, and he cursed anyone who thought otherwise to an early grave.

"I've seen him, though," the painting continued. "Not alone, mind you. He's been talking to a little Slytherin. Pretty lad, that one, so if he _is_ your fella, you'd better make a move lest he steal him."

 _I don't have friends._ Liar, John thought, hating how bitter he felt. He had other friends and Sherlock only had one. Sherlock was annoying and rude and immature and he didn't care if he took up John's time. John was better off without him. John thought of hating him but it was too exhausting and in the end, he only felt sad and worried.

"Well? Are you going to follow my advice?"

John glared at the portrait then headed off to Herbology before he could do something he would later regret.

It was always warm in the greenhouse, but it seemed to John that he was stepping in a glacier today. Herbology was the only subject that the Gryffindors shared with the Slytherins and as Sherlock had gone into a sulk since John walked out on him, it would be the first time in two days that they would see each other.

"Still moping," Bill said as John took a seat next to him. Bill gave him a knowing look that John was not at all comfortable with. He looked over his shoulder to avoid that knowing gaze. It was a mistake. Seated at the back was Sherlock, his body turned to the right so he could talk to the Slytherin next to him. John seldom acknowledged the Slytherins as most of them tended to insult him to throw him off during the Quidditch season, so he had absolutely no idea who the boy was. But his face was familiar, and three seconds of staring at him told John that he had once seen him with Molly.

"Settle down, class," Professor Longbottom wheezed. He was a very old professor who was a veteran of the Battle of Hogwarts. John did not see anything remotely heroic about old Professor Longbottom, but he must have been something during his time as many regarded him with great respect. John would probably admire him as well if the professor had not hacked up a healthy ball of phlegm that had landed on the front of John's shirt two years ago.

"I need some help passing these seeds. Anyone?"

"I'll do it!" It was the Slytherin boy Sherlock had been talking to. He spoke with a brightness that was out of place among the Fifth Years. But to John's surprise, the Slytherins didn't laugh at him. Some, the females, were staring at him fondly.

Professor Longbottom peered at him. "Er, Seamus is it?"

"Richard Brook, sir," the small Slytherin answered readily then moved to the saplings they would be working on before Professor Longbottom could explain why he'd mistaken him for someone called Seamus. There were days when the professor failed to give out instructions, too busy reminiscing about the past. John thought it was fine that the professor had his bouts of nostalgia but he sure preferred it if it didn't happen whenever they were dealing with Venemous Tentacula.

"Snap Dragons," Richard said cheerily as he deposited a pot of young Snap Dragons in front of John. John stared at him, wondering how Sherlock could stand his happy-go-lucky nature. There was something mildly irritating about his wide brown eyes and his ever-present smile.

"Uh, thanks," he said then watched as Richard whisked away to finish his delivery.

"Cheery fellow, isn't he?" Bill said as he put on his gloves. One of the flowers launched on his finger but the thick leather prevented it from breaking the skin. "He's okay for a Slytherin. Molly likes him. I see them all the time together."

His appraisal took John aback. Bill _loathed_ Slytherins. Had Sherlock not befriended John, his name would have also been under the list of people Bill wanted to hex before graduation. In fact, John believe that Sherlock's name had been in that list (for such a thing did exist and was fastened with Spell-O tape over Bill's bed) before John became friends with him.

John focused on his work, forgetting Sherlock and odd Richard Brook for a moment as he placed the sapling in a different pot. "You're a miracle worker, John," Anna Dubont said as she watched John do the task without getting a single cut. John grinned at her, but it was short-lived. She sat behind him so that he'd had to look over his shoulder once more. Sherlock's hand was bleeding heavily. Richard was tying it with his handkerchief but it was already stained through. Professor Longbottom didn't notice and the others ignored Sherlock as always. All except for Anderson who sneered at him.

John stayed behind a little as they filed out of the greenhouse. It looked like Richard could handle him and it seemed had even managed to persuade Sherlock to go to the Hospital Wing.

"John!" Bill yelled, "Transfiguration next and you promised to help me with Vanishing Spells."

John _had_ promised. He shouldered his bag then sped off, unaware that Sherlock had been watching him.

John hadn't been aware of how Sherlock had taken up a big part of his life until people started noticing the absence of the boy genius. It irritated John whenever people would ask him where Sherlock was. He could now tell where Sherlock was and often he was located in the Astronomy tower, probably burying himself in his research or experiments. John didn't want to think he was up there, playing his violin. He kept it with him at all times ever since Shacklebolt banned him from Hogsmeade visits last year, and John had learned that the violin was Sherlock's way of expressing his emotions clearly. Sherlock had claimed he used it for thinking and he did, though John was not sure he was too aware of its other purpose.

John hated it, hated thinking of Sherlock up there all alone attacking his violin without John to comment on his playing. He wanted to text Sherlock, talk to him, tell him that this fight was stupid and that John had just overreacted. But a part of John wanted Sherlock to be the first one to break. The lack of the usual text messages told John that Sherlock wanted _him_ to give up this little game as well.

They were both so childish.

People noticed. People would have to be really stupid not to and John's friends were far from idiots.

"I'm not his keeper," he snapped when Sarah asked if they were alright. His voice was loud and it carried all the way to the librarian who gave him such a furious look that John ducked his head until she returned to her book.

"I was just asking," Sarah answered stoutly. Sometimes John wondered if he should have agreed to the two of them staying friends as Sarah was beginning to sound more and more like Harry. Well, Harry before all the firewhiskey. "You're obviously miserable. Your essays are getting better but when it comes to practical exams you're slipping."

John scowled. It was true. Now that Sherlock wasn't there to pester him, he had more time to do his homework. But in classes that required wandwork John was getting a little sloppy. He had stunned Professor Orbs several times when his target was actually supposed to be his partner, Trish Kelly. The professor had not been pleased and had deducted five points from his House when he became unconscious nine times in a row. "How do you know that?" he grumbled.

"I'm dating Ethan Phoebus, remember?"

John blinked. "That skinny guy who reads a lot?"

"He's a romantic," Sarah said, her eyes on his Potions essay. "He likes Shakespeare."

There was something about her tone that made him feel guilty. It was almost as if she was saying that if he had been more romantic, had approached her right after that mistletoe disaster, then maybe he still wouldn't be a lonely single Fifth Year.

He cleared his throat a few times to get rid of the awkward silence. "I'm fine," he told her. "Sherlock's getting along well, too, I suppose."

"No, he's not." She frowned at his homework then attacked a paragraph with a quill. "Zeno Paz is one of his roommates—he's one of the new prefects. I heard him complaining about Sherlock. He says he doesn't sleep often there but when he does, he thrashes about. Nightmare, I think, and he says it's gotten worse this year."

"Why would he be having a nightmare—oh, er, right. I keep forgetting about his dad."

"His dad?"

Ah, right. No one else knew apart from Lestrade and John. He shook his head, feeling as if saying it out loud would be a big betrayal to Sherlock. As big a git he was, John didn't want to expose the one thing that made Sherlock quite vulnerable. "Nothing," he said.

"What does Lestrade think you should do? He's friend's with him, too, right?"

John snorted. "Lestrade's too busy being Head Boy."

"Well you should talk to him. You two are useless when you're separated."

Was he? Was John really that boring when he wasn't around Sherlock? He grimaced then stood up after Sarah had finished editing his homework.

There were fewer people in the courtyard when John got there. Bill, Mike, Mike's girlfriend, and Molly were under their beech tree, doing their homework. It was the year of their O.W.L.S and many Fifth Years could be found with a book and quill always in their presence. They had added more things to the Hogwarts curriculum this year and had been doing so ever since the legendary Battle of Hogwarts. This was one of the few reasons why John didn't like Harry Potter. He'd done so many spectacular things that the wizarding community expected the current students to be just as spectacular as The Boy Who Lived.

"My eyebrows are singed from all this studying," Bill sighed dramatically. He flopped on his back and stared at John with eyes full of despair. "We haven't even been here for a week and they're already drowning us in schoolwork. Kill me now, John."

At the word 'kill' John thought again of Moriarty's letter. A pang of guilt shot through him. His right hand was already reaching for the phone he'd slipped in the pocket of his trousers. John caught himself and chose to rest it on the trunk of the beech tree instead, his palm brushing against the familiar JP plus LE enclosed in a badly carved heart.

"FUCK OFF, FAGGOT!"

They looked up just in time to see Anderson shove Sherlock down the ground. He had his Slytherin cronies with him, seven in number, all of whom were much bigger in size than the boy sprawled on the beneath them. "You think you're so smart, don't you?" Anderson roared. "Who gave you the right to tell on people?"

Sherlock muttered something that Anderson didn't like. "Bastard," Anderson growled, fishing out his wand.

And then John was running, his books and quills forgotten, his own fist raised but this time making contact. He could feel Anderson's cheekbone crack under his punch, could feel the blood gush down his nose and coat his fingers. John was violent and when he got going there was no stopping him. A hex was sent his way, making a deep cut on his cheek, but John kept going. He kept hitting Anderson everywhere he could reach him, and when one of his cronies touched John, he hit him as well.

Bugger their stupid fight.

Bugger if Sherlock still had the idea that John wasn't his friend.

John was going to dismember every one of these damn idiots then call Sherlock an idiot as well once he was done.

"STOP IT!"

"Get off me!"

"John, snap out of it!" It was Mike shaking him, the others hovering worriedly over his shoulder. John's rage faded so that he stood there, staring confusedly at the whimpering Slytherins at his feet. He was aware of a dull pain in his left hand. He tried to flex his fingers but his muscles protested and he let his hand go slack once more.

"Detention for all of you," a Gryffindor prefect who saw the fight said, wincing as he added, "and twenty points from both Gryffindor and Slytherin."

"Leave them to me," another prefect, this one a Hufflepuff, said, "I'll take them to Filch."

John followed the prefect in a daze, panic settling in now that the adrenaline was leaving his body. Sherlock walked beside him with a split lip and a bruise forming under his left eye. He had gotten in the fight at some point and next to John, he looked as if he was the one who'd actually saved John and not the other way around. John kept sneaking glances at him as they walked, wondering whether or not Sherlock felt as nervous as him. Possibly not.

There was a tug on his sleeve, stopping him from both his tracks and his train of thought. The prefect was already walking ahead of them, unaware that they'd stopped moving.

"I don't want detention," Sherlock said, "I have something more important to do."

John wanted to shout at him. "Well, we can't have that, can we?" he hissed as he tried to pull his sleeve away from Sherlock. The pale fingers wouldn't budge and only tightened their grip on him.

"Watch me."

"Sherlock—no, don't—"

"Obliviate."

The incantation was spoken in a soft whisper. The prefect stopped walking for five seconds before she moved on, walking down the corridor opposite Filch's office. "You're sick," John snarled though without real venom. He began to move away then stopped when he remembered that Sherlock still had hold of him so that he ended up doing a strange little dance.

"Don't go." Sherlock's other hand grabbed John's right sleeve, trapping him. He looked at John, his face twisted in a mask of concentration. "I meant what I said," he began, "that I don't have friends."

John rolled his eyes. "Okay, well—"

"I just have one."

There was that thing Sherlock could do, that Veela thing that gave him the ability to manipulate a selection of people into believing the lies that spewed out of his mouth. John was immune to it, or at least he thought he was as he'd gotten to know Sherlock before the genius had tried—and failed—to use it on him. But when John looked at Sherlock's face, he wasn't so sure. There was a vulnerability there that made John want to comfort him, and he almost hugged him right there had the rational part of his brain not warned him that this might be a trick.

But then Sherlock did something very un-Sherlock, something that he'd never done even when he was manipulating people. Sherlock didn't like to be touched and while John was the exception, their physical interaction was limited to light pats on the shoulder or a hand slapping away another hand to prevent it from pilfering from the Potions' supply cabinet. And there was that time John kissed Sherlock on his forehead, but that had been forced by the mistletoe and John had only lingered because Sherlock had been unusually silent. So John got a surprise when Sherlock leaned forward and buried his head on his shoulder. It must have looked weird t an outsider with Sherlock having to lean down and his fingers still clutching the cuffs of John's sleeves. John assumed that this was the Sherlockian hug, so he answered with several light pats between his shoulder blades until Sherlock straightened himself, dropping one hand so that now, only his left was still clutching on John's jumper.

"I still need you for the case." Sherlock blinked at him, blue eyes challenging John to come up with a good answer. Then he frowned even more, looking away from John when he added in a slightly angry voice, "I missed you."

John was aware that this wasn't something that mates normally said to each other. In writing, yes, maybe, but out loud it was a little strange, especially with the fierce way Sherlock had said it, almost as if he was accusing John of making him miss him. But Sherlock was far from a normal friend, far from a normal person, actually, and John thought that he should just accept it and be flattered that Sherlock was more human when around John than with any other person.

"I missed you, too." The strange part was that it didn't even _sound_ weird. It just felt right. He chewed on his lower lip for a while, thinking of something to say that would break the awkward silence that had followed.

"I still don't approve."

"You don't approve of a lot of things I do." Sherlock smiled.

"You're playing with fire."

"I _like_ fire, John. I burned one of your atrocious jumpers just to pacify my boredom."

"I remember. I still think you should leave it to Mycroft."

Scowl. "Fuck Mycroft."

"No thank you."

"Yes, it would be most unsanitary and there would always have to be a five-mile distance between us if you engaged in such a hideous activity with my older brother." Eyeroll. "I've been bored since June and there's a new Auror who tried to hex me just so I would go away. I must not be deprived of these festivities, John, you know that."

"Bit not good to classify a triple murder under festivities."

"People die every day."

"Stop being so uncaring."

"…"

"…"

"We shouldn't fight anymore."

"Impossible to do so yet I still agree."

John shrugged then looked at his feet. "You're still a prat."

"You're still an idiot."

"Git."

Then Sherlock did that strange hug thing again.

"I thought you didn't like to be touched."

"My hands are gloved, I'm holding you by your cuffs, and my forehead is on your shoulder and you are clothed, meaning there is absolutely no skin on skin contact which I hate." He lifted his head from John's shoulder and stared at him, his face so close that John could only see the blue blur that was his eyes. "My hand still hurts by the way, the one that Snap Dragon bit. Fix it."

John snorted and pulled out of the Sherlock hug completely. "Later. We should be in class. Lunch is almost over."

"No, I've waited this long. We're going to Diagon Alley right this instance."

John looked at Sherlock like he was insane. Pretending was not hard. His hair was mussed, his collar was ripped, there was a shiner on his precious cheekbone, his lip was still bleeding, and his eyes were bugging out with excitement, giving him a manic expression.

"You can't go back to class, John, because surely word has spread that you and I got in a fight with Anderson and the rest of his imbeciles and our professors will wonder why we're back so early. I'm a master of memory charms but even I can't delete memories from so many people in one day."

John sighed. "I don't have a choice, do I?"

"You can risk explaining to the teachers why Her-Name's-Not-Relevant forgot to bring you to Filch."

"Rather not."

"Diagon Alley?"

John nodded. "Diagon Alley."

* * *

The Knight Bus dropped them in front of The Leaky Cauldron. Leo, the conductor, practically threw them out and glared at Sherlock with so much scorn that John wondered briefly why Sherlock wasn't suddenly bursting into flames. "You shouldn't have told him he was having an affair with one of the passengers," John said as they were thrown back when the Knight Bus sped off once more, the loud crack making John think they had been whipped. He picked himself up from the ground, wincing as Sherlock grabbed his bruised hand to stand up. "What gave it away?"

"Wedding ring unpolished, the rest of his clothes were kept in pristine condition, red rash on his chin, and John, did you not notice that of all eighteen passengers, it was only Mr Ellis who was offered a mug of hot chocolate, a treat that is only acquired when you ride the Knight Bus in the hours between 6 pm and 3 am?"

"I noticed. The hot chocolate part anyway." His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he'd had next to nothing for lunch. It wouldn't do any good to say that to Sherlock, though. Sherlock on a case didn't have a stomach or any basic human needs and when John was with Sherlock on a case, John was expected to act like a robot as well. Besides, they didn't have any money.

The Leaky Cauldron looked even more desolate now that civilians were banned from going in. A guard was posted at the door. He looked young, fresh out of school, and while John was not as adept at making deductions as Sherlock, he knew that this was no Auror, but only a trainee. "Six months of training at most," Sherlock said as they watched the young man eye the street nervously.

"What about the others?"

"The murder took place four days ago. It's unlikely that there are any more Aurors hanging around. They only need someone to guard the place and make sure nothing else will happen this week."

"So how are we entering?"

Sherlock eyed the guard. "Not yet trained in Occlumency. This one won't resist."

"Veela thing?"

"Hmm…"

"No entering," the man said, raising his wand to ward them off when they stepped up to him. He frowned at the two of them. "Hogwart, eh? Shouldn't you be in school?"

Sherlock made a motion that told John to turn his back to them. John raised his eyebrows but complied.

Less than a minute later, they were being led to Room 12 by the trainee Auror who looked positively smitten. He would look over his shoulder every now and then to gaze at Sherlock adoringly. "I learned something new this summer," Sherlock told John. "It's stronger than the others."

"I thought that thing with the puppy eyes was strong enough but this," John looked at the young man who seemed to be drooling, "this, I don't ever want to know."

"It doesn't work on everyone, though. The victim must already have some level of attraction to me for it to work. I only have to heighten it."

John felt his face go red. Sherlock had made him look away. Did that mean he was attracted to Sherlock? He sneaked a glance at his best friend. Well, Sherlock _was_ attractive even with his face bruised, and there were only few people who didn't find him so. So far, the only people John knew who didn't think Sherlock was that good-looking were Sally, Anderson, and Mike. Bill had once told John that if Sherlock weren't so rude, he might try to sleep with him—but then, Bill wanted to sleep with everyone. John had noticed Lestrade staring at Sherlock longer than necessary and John was sure he wasn't even aware he was doing it.

"John, hurry up," Sherlock snapped. Maybe the rude thing won over for the others.

They stopped in front of a heavy wooden door with the number twelve crudely engraved on the surface. Sherlock tapped the lock with his wand, shooting a charming smile at the guard as he did so. The young man puffed his chest out and grinned at Sherlock, his eyes practically undressing him right there. John shook his head as Sherlock waved him away impatiently before he followed him inside.

The room was spacious and held one four-poster bed, a worn wardrobe, and a thick moth-eaten rug. It did not look like a place where murder had been committed. John shuddered as he imagined those three people dying in the hands of Henry Knight. Innocent he might be, but it didn't change the fact that he'd pointed his wand at those three and said Avada Kedavra.

"What do you expect to find here anyway?" John said as Sherlock moved around, poking and prodding at things. "It's been four days."

"The common mistake of Aurors is they don't adopt the Muggles' approach to solving crimes." He went down on all fours and sniffed at the rug. John did not bother telling him that it was unsanitary. "There's something else here."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Just stand there and don't do anything."

Typical. John rolled his eyes and ignored Sherlock's request. He walked around slowly, paying no attention to the glares Sherlock was directing at him, even going as far as annoying him by putting one hand on the wall so that his fingertips brushed against it.

"Stop it, John!"

John did stop but it wasn't because of Sherlock. The part of the wall his hand was resting on was strangely cold, almost as if it had been frozen a while ago. "Sherlock—"

"You found something."

"Yeah." He moved aside and pointed at the place where his hand had been. "Here. It feels cold."

Sherlock touched it lightly, his eyes narrowed in concentration. John did his best to not breathe too loud and to not think too much. John knew Sherlock was no mind reader but whenever John was thinking about things and Sherlock was bent over a book, researching for a case, he would snap and tell John to shut up. "It's your face," he'd said, "There are so many changes when you're thinking. It distracts me."

This was something John did not understand. Why Sherlock insisted he help him when he kept repeating John was a distraction to his thought process was a mystery.

Sherlock drew back, raised his wand and touched the tip to the wall. A thin crack appeared, growing until the wall crumbled and a small hole was made. Grey dust spilled on the floor, forming a small mountain of ash near John's feet. "Lumos," Sherlock muttered.

Inside, pushed at the very back was a small, slim object. John held his breath as Sherlock cast a Summoning Charm on it. The item came quickly and landed in Sherlock's gloved hand, and all thoughts of bombs and bewitched knives were flushed down the drain.

For a while they just stared at it.

"It's a phone," John finally said, breaking the silence.

It was a smart phone with a garish pink case. It looked new and Sherlock confirmed John's guess. "Little weight to it," Sherlock told him, handing it to him carefully. "Like yours and mine."

John turned the phone around, wondering who Moriaty was exactly and why he left them a pink phone. There were very little phones in the wizarding community but as John was more Muggle than wizard at home, he was familiar to the sight of the gadget in his hands. Still, it was strange. He'd only seen phones like this on snotty teenage girls with more money than the worth of his and Harry's wardrobe combined. "So it's manufactured to work in wizarding communities?" he asked as he turned it on.

"Correct."

"There's a message here. Should I…"

"Yes."

It was a picture actually, one of poor quality but still good enough to make out the important details. John's hand shook and he nearly dropped it when he saw that the picture was of a man strapped to a chair, a black blindfold covering his eyes. The lighting was bright, as if the man was inside a room made solely for tanning. He didn't look like he'd been tortured but he soon would be.

"That's no carpet," Sherlock said as he took the phone and inspected it even further.

John swallowed hard. There was no mistaking the mat of vines lying at the man's feet. "Devil's Snare," he said.

Sherlock frowned. "But shouldn't it be killing him already?"

That made John laugh, a choked laugh that revealed his fears. "You clearly don't listen to anything Professor Longbottom says," he said. "Bright light stops them from moving. Combine that with the right amount of heat and the plant's dead."

"Clever," John heard him say. He rounded on Sherlock, ready to lecture him once more. But he seemed deep in thought and John knew better than to interrupt him when he was like that.

He stood back and surveyed the wall for a moment, his hands formed in a steeple beneath his chin. John looked away, hating the eager expression on Sherlock's face and hating himself even more for thinking about it. Sherlock needed this.

The sharp intake of breath made him look at Sherlock again. "Fingerprints," he whispered, his eyes focused on the bottom of the hole where the dust had spilled. John stared at it, his eyes widening when he saw the faint markings.

"Powder!" Sherlock cried. He shoved John away then frantically began to pull things out of his pockets. Out came John's special quill which he had been looking for since last February, a tea bag, a box of cigarettes (John glared at this then at Sherlock), a packet of seeds John was sure belonged to the Venomous Tentacula in Greenhouse 6, a couple of white patches he was unfamiliar with, and finally a small, earth-stained bag tied loosely with a piece of string. A bit of silver powder spilled on the floor when Sherlock untied it.

"Floo powder?" John said incredulously.

"Shush." Sherlock waved his wand once. The Floo powder was lifted from the cloth. Sherlock waved his wand again and the powder attached itself to the wall.

Slowly, more fingerprints began to appear. John's mouth literally fell open when he saw that they were arranged to form words. Soon each particle of Floor powder was stuck to the wall, highlighting the message.

"Twelve hours," John read. The hole was in the centre of the 'o', disrupting the message not at all. "What does it mean?"

"It means I have twelve hours to find out who the fingerprints belong to," Sherlock answered, saying the words in a flat voice. "The light in the room where the hostage is will begin to grow dimmer and will be extinguished if I don't solve it in time, allowing the Devil's Snare to strangle him to death.

"I'm not going to allow that to happen," Sherlock added when he saw the panicked look on John's face. "Or rather, it's impossible for it to happen."

John let out another nervous laugh. "Modest, aren't you?"

Sherlock said nothing. Instead he took out his phone, slipping the pink one in John's pocket for safekeeping. It felt strange there, like it was burning a hole through the cloth and trying to char John's flesh. He bit his lip hard enough to almost draw blood.

"Who are you texting?" John asked, startled by the pained expression on Sherlock's face. He was attacking the keypad as if it took great effort to press his thumb on it.

"Change of plans," Sherlock answered, pocketing his phone. He winced. "We're meeting Mycroft."


	9. Playing

Mycroft Holmes looked out of place in The Three Broomsticks in his immaculate three piece suit and with his posh black umbrella at his side. John could not explain how an umbrella could be posh because an umbrella was just a tool you used to avoid the rain. He guessed that the umbrella just managed to not look just like a simple black umbrella because it was in Mycroft's possession. Everything Mycroft held managed to look expensive, even the dusty tankard of Butterbeer he was now lifting to his mouth.

"I haven't had this drink in ages," he admitted before he took a small sip that was better suited for ingesting Darjeeling.

Next to John, Sherlock slumped further down his seat and glared at his brother, looking quite like a five-year-old with his arms folded over his chest and his legs tucked in, his feet planted firmly at the edge of the chair. "Doesn't look like it," he jeered.

Mycroft sighed and John wanted to as well, but this was a war between two brothers and he was definitely not going to pick sides. "Must you be so childish, Sherlock?" he said as he set the tankard down. "May I remind you that you were the one who requested that I enter this," he paused then stared at his surroundings with disapproval, "establishment?"

"You've been here many times before."

"That does not mean I enjoy being here."

"Carter," Sherlock said, quickly getting to the point, "I need you to talk to the Head Auror and tell him to hand all cases related to Moriarty to me. Carter's incompetent, more so than George Lestrade."

And here was the part where Mycroft would refuse, Sherlock would turn into an angry cat, and John would stand there with his wand ready to try and appease them. He looked nervously to where Mrs Hudson had disappeared, dear sweet Mrs Hudson who, it seemed, saw both Holmeses as her own sons and would not fail to give them a good smack upside their heads if she saw them hissing at each other. It turned out that she had been in their employment as Sherlock's nanny, up until her husband landed in Azkaban and Mrs Hudson set off to handle The Three Broomsticks. How she had survived six years of living with these two, John didn't know, but she was the only person apart from John who could persuade Sherlock to eat.

John braced himself for the fight that would follow. He got the surprise of his life when Mycroft nodded, a pensive expression on his face. "Very well," he said. Sherlock shot John a triumphant look then quickly hid his smug smile by drinking copious amounts of Butterbeer.

"Excuse me?" John gaped at Mycroft. Those stern eyes stared at him suspiciously but John didn't back down. "He's your brother and there's a crazy guy who wants to play morbid games with him. Aren't you supposed to protect him or something?"

"I don't require Mycroft's protection!" Sherlock yelled, spitting Butterbeer all over John's face. There was something more to that but John wasn't going to ask, especially not with Mycroft here to make things worse.

"Moriarty is a danger to the wizarding world," Mycroft answered while Sherlock glared daggers at John. "And my brother is only one person. Protect Sherlock and the rest of the populace is left open for attack. My brother is old enough to handle himself when danger comes and this Moriarty will not stop until Sherlock participates. The triple murder in The Leaky Cauldron is enough to worry the masses and the faster this blows over, the better. People are beginning to think there's a new Dark Lord. The Unforgiveables haven't been used in years."

Sherlock scowled at his tankard. "Funny isn't it," he said in a tone that said it wasn't, "that people are always thinking of Voldemort's heir popping up?"

Mycroft said nothing but John saw a thin frown line appear on his forehead.

Looking at them, John suddenly remembered the last time he and Harry had fought. It was at the end of summer and Harry had let him see the new flat she and Clara shared. John had enjoyed it, right until Harry came home one night, drunk and accusing John of staring too long at Clara. Clara had not been there to see Harry rant and rave. Clara had also not been there to see Harry slap John when he shouted back and told her that she was the reason why their father was so upset nowadays. "Go back to Mom then!" Harry had yelled and John had gone ice cold at her words. "She always loved you best!"

But Harry was alright when she wasn't drunk and she had apologized afterwards, sobbing in his arms and telling him how sorry she was and that she would never pick up a bottle again (John had yet to see this happen). Mycroft and Sherlock, however, seemed to be in a perpetual feud.

"What about Knight?" John said when neither spoke again. He fidgeted a little in his seat when both Holmeses' eyes fixed on him. "Sherlock says he's innocent."

"Imperius Curse." Sherlock straightened himself a little; his arse had almost slipped off the chair. He grinned suddenly then fished out a photograph from his pocket. Apparently, Sherlock had somehow charmed his pockets to allow multiple items to be placed inside it. "This is a photograph taken as Knight was being sent away. Carter had it in his pocket and I took it from him when he pushed me aside."

"Another endearing skill," Mycroft muttered but he looked at the picture nonetheless. It was black and white and featured a frightened looking young man with large ears and short dark hair. "His pupils are still a little dilated," Sherlock pointed out.

"Authorities in Azkaban will be informed." Mycroft stared at the photograph with distaste and John knew that Carter would have to do a better job at being Auror if he wanted to keep it. "And as for you two, Nicholas Shacklebolt has been sent an owl informing him and the rest of your superiors of your whereabouts. Sherlock, you are allowed to skive off classes when Moriarty makes his presence known. You do it often enough that it won't come off as strange."

"I'll need John with me."

Mycroft glanced at John. "No, Sherlock—let me finish," he held up his hand and waited until Sherlock sat down again, "John is a model student and people will become suspicious if you drag him out of class. He may help you through texts but for the most part, keep John out of it. We're supposed to make this look like nothing terrible is happening."

"But—"

"No, Sherlock."

"I agree as well."

Sherlock rounded on him, his eyes wide as saucers. John did his best to focus his attention on a scratch on the tabletop as he spoke. "I mean, this isn't about coping with boredom anymore. Also, our O.W.L.S are coming this year and not everyone's like you. I really need to work hard for this if I want to be a Healer."

"Mycroft can pull some strings." He turned to his brother but Mycroft shook his head, making Sherlock snarl in frustration. It would have been funny but Sherlock looked like he was about to go into another tantrum. John downed the rest of his Butterbeer just in case Sherlock suddenly made it explode. "But you _like_ it when we solve cases, John," he pointed out, his voice almost pleading, "You even write about it in that notebook you gave me."

John shrugged. "And there's that, too. I mean, when you solve cases…I don't really do anything."

"But I need you!" Sherlock repeated, his cheeks flushed red from anger. "Your presence is relevant!" John felt himself go red as well though anger was not the reason. Mycroft was staring at them with a strange look on his face that made John want to sink to the floor and disappear forever.

"I…"

" _Please_ , John."

Agreeing meant a pleased Sherlock and a pleased Sherlock meant no sulking, no snapping at John for no particular reason, and no jumpers being burned just for the hell of it. But the cons were that Sherlock would occupy all of John's time and he did that often enough already. Lestrade had told him that once he graduated, he would appoint John as the new Captain, a position that John had always dreamed of getting. And he had to study for his O.W.L.S as well. There were so many things he hadn't quite gotten yet and Professor McCormic had warned them that they would soon try to make a corporeal Patronus, something that Lestrade and Sarah had warned was a very tricky charm. Bloody Harry Potter, John thought sullenly as he stared at Sherlock's hopeful face.

His heart nearly broke when he said no. Sherlock looked hurt. But…

"Don't," John warned, looking away quickly, "Don't use that Veela thing on me, Sherlock Holmes, or else I'll throw your precious violin in the Great Lake."

The sadness left Sherlock's face and was replaced with the cool blank mask he often wore. "Fine," he growled. He glared at Mycroft as if it was Mycroft who'd put the words in John's mouth.

They were going to shout, John thought, his heart racing. They were going to shout at each other and Sherlock would lose control and things would break and John might be able to witness a full Sherlock tantrum, something he had never seen before. Breaking glass was the first thing on the list and that was as far as John had witnessed. Lestrade hadn't warned him about the other things and John was sure he, too, had never seen Sherlock let himself go. Did Sherlock set things on fire when he got too angry? John looked at their surroundings nervously, wondering why Sherlock hadn't just let them stay in Diagon Alley where buildings were made of brick and not wood.

Relief washed over him when he saw Mrs Hudson coming toward them. There was a bit of flour on the sleeves of her purple dress, making her look more maternal than usual. John didn't care that she didn't look too presentable. As long as she could make them stop killing each other with their death glares, John wouldn't care, even if she'd walked up to them naked.

No! Delete, obliviate! Merlin, how did Sherlock delete horrible mental images?

"Sherlock, dear," she chided as John shuddered and massaged his temples, "How many times have I warned you not to frown so much?"

"Eighty-three times," Sherlock answered immediately without looking away from his older brother.

"Make that eight-four, young man." She placed her hands on her hips and John could not help but admire her for standing her ground. "Stop that right this instance or you'll ruin that pretty face of yours and we all know how important it is for you to make those young girls wet themselves." John began to choke on his own saliva at this. "And Mycroft, do not antagonize your brother any further. I've seen enough of your little spats and they all ended up with me cleaning up after the mess you've made."

They looked at her, their frowns evident and John could not help but see the family resemblance, often hidden when Sherlock put on his indifferent mask and Mycroft wore his arrogant smile.

She beamed again, the strict expression gone from her face, then said, "You two should be getting back to class."

"Someone's about to get killed by a Devil's Snare," Sherlock countered.

"That's lovely, Sherlock. But how about John?"

"I'll call my assistant," Mycroft answered before Sherlock could say anything. "Mrs Hudson is right, Sherlock. John does need to get back to school."

"But—"

Whatever Sherlock had to say died in his throat at the look Mycroft sent him. It startled John to see Sherlock be subdued by his brother until he realized that this was one of those things siblings did. They were using a language composed of subtle shifts in their facial expressions, a language that John and every other person in the planet would never understand. Possibly this was something the Holmes brothers had developed before their falling out. John understood perfectly well. He'd been close to Harry once.

Mycroft's assistant arrived a few minutes later to whisk John away. And if Sherlock heard him say goodbye, he gave no sign that he even heard him leave.

* * *

"Dennis Oswald."

The folder fell on the table with a loud _splat_ , the sound almost mocking, more so than the smug smile of the boy in front of him. Carter gritted his teeth but said nothing. Bones was monitoring them for making the mistake of immediately sending Henry Knight to Azkaban. He wasn't going to complain; he had no right to. Knight had been trembling when they escorted him out of the wizard prison, shouting whenever a Dementor glided near them. It was lucky that they got Knight to St. Mungo's in time. If they'd been any later, the boy would have killed himself out of madness. And then Carter would have lost his job.

 _They'll give it to this kid for all the work I'm doing_. Carter eyed Sherlock Holmes warily. The Holmes family had always been strange, and there were rumours about the youngest member being a wizard more powerful than Potter himself, rumours his older brother Mycroft seemed to encourage as he sometimes asked someone in their office to keep an eye on the boy, mostly when their father had just died. These rumours were true, though. Proof of this was making sure that the boy's Trace was intact as it seemed to be the weekly job of the Improper Use of Magic Office. Still, Carter knew little about him as he'd never been assigned to something so demeaning as guard duty. Well, until now.

"Oswald?" he grunted, making sure his voice showed how displeased he was about this arrangement. He couldn't believe Bones had allowed Mycroft Holmes to bully him into letting his little brother take charge of this case. Powerful wizard he might be but there was no escaping the fact that the boy was, well, a boy. He was fifteen-years-old and he looked even younger at times. Carter remember that George Lestrade had allowed (or rather, had been bullied by his brother) the kid to solve cold cases, mostly those things about dragon eggs smugglers that the Magical Law Enforcement had long given up and handed to them to be filed away, forgotten. But young Sherlock Holmes had solved every single one of them so that Azkaban was filled with more prisoners than they knew what to do with.

Carter kind of hated him.

"He's a Muggle." Sherlock seemed to be sneering at him. Merlin, how had George survived with this kid around? "Well, actually was. A researcher who died of colon cancer and offered his corpse for scientific study. His right hand was severed from his body which can be found in the morgue of St. Bart's hospital."

"How did you get in there?"

But the kid was already waving him off. He was filled with manic energy and Carter's suspicions that the boy was mad were confirmed just by looking at him. He'd gotten into a fight earlier and with the darkening bruises and those bulging eyes, Carter had half a mind to toss the boy in St. Mungo's. He exchanged a look with Keene, one of the few Aurors who hadn't followed George to Bulgaria. The other man shook his head in warning.

"He's not important," Sherlock told him. His hands were pressed together and he looked like he was praying. "The hostage is the important one."

"Then tell this Morgan fellow—"

"Moriarty," Sherlock corrected, rolling his eyes at him.

"Yes, well, call him!"

Beside him, Keene was shaking his head once more. Carter balled his hands into fists but closed his mouth and did his best to relax his body. Sherlock's eyes were narrowed at him, but once he showed that he wasn't going to order him around anymore, he continued, rambling on about test results and microscopes until finally, finally, he fished out that hideous pink phone. He began to text. Carter didn't have to wait for long. The phone rang as soon as Sherlock had finished sending Dennis Oswald's name.

* * *

Sherlock knew something was off even before the person at the other end of the line spoke.

"V-very g-good, dearest." _Male, middle-aged, stammering, fear, the hostage, still under threat._ "You…m-managed to…s-solve the p-puzzle…just in time. S-six h-hours…so impressive. I still…have much in store f-for you…but, I…I p-promise you that…they'll g-get…more interesting."

There was a pause where Sherlock could only hear the man's laboured breathing before a small explosion at the other end of the line interrupted the silence. He heard the man's gasp, a scream of pain though it sounded more like it had been caused by surprise. "What's happening?" Carter asked, taking one step forward, his hand reaching for the phone. Sherlock glared at him until he dropped it.

"OH GOD! OH GOD !" The man was in hysterics. "THE BLOODY PHONE EXPLODED IN MY HAND!"

_Two phones then. One for calling him, another for reading what Moriarty wanted to say to him._

"The Devil's Snare?" Sherlock shouted over the man's panicked screaming. Why did they always have to scream so loud? "Where are you?"

"Dead!" the man gasped. "These vile plants are dead! It's boiling in here and I can't see a thing!"

"He's fine. Fingers might be missing but he's alive." He handed the phone to Carter who immediately began to question the hostage's whereabouts. Sherlock began to pace, ignoring the stares the Aurors were giving him.

What was important? What was the hostage's connection to Moriarty? Obviously Oswald wasn't the important one. He was only a lead to the hostage. But who was he?

"He's in Brixton," Carter said once the call was over. He handed the phone back to Sherlock. "He's got a few burns but he's unhurt. Name's Benjamin Schiff—"

Oh!

"I know him," Sherlock said suddenly. "He made my broom, custom made. Father gave it to me as a present and Schiff met me to know how I wanted it."

He remembered Schiff. Forty-two-years-old, happily married, three children, mild-mannered. He'd been all business when he met Sherlock, ignoring his protests that he didn't even want a broom. Sherlock wasn't fond of flying but he couldn't deny that the broom Schiff had made for him was better than most. Sherlock had only met him thrice so Moriarty's using him was a bit vague.

"But what's the connection?" Carter demanded when Sherlock didn't say anything else. "What's he to this Moriarty fellow?"

"It isn't a _connection_."

"Then what is it?"

"He's got nothing to do with Moriarty." Sherlock stared at Keene who looked at him worriedly. It was too early to tell, really, but the only reason why Schiff had been chosen was to serve as a warning to Sherlock.

Moriarty had been watching him for a long time now. But how?

* * *

"Goddamn it! Stop, stop right now!"

John pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and willed himself to calm down. His head hurt, his patience was worn thin, and he had the urge to grab the nearest thing and snap it into two. This wasn't the first time Lestrade had asked him to fill in for Quidditch practice so he could do his Head Boy duties, but it was certainly the first time he'd ever seen them work so sloppily. Sally was also not present—the Seventh Years were doing a project—which was why John was doing all the disciplining.

The soft thumps of feet landing on the grass made him open his eyes. Several of them were swaying slightly, their eyes glazed. The wince Bill made as he clambered off his broom confirmed John's suspicions.

"Fucking hell, how many times has Lestrade told us not to drink before practice? Or have you all got cotton in your ears?" John snapped. One of his chasers actually dared to throw up her breakfast right in front of him. "Who, what, and where?"

"Portia Simms, seventeenth birthday party, and Hufflepuff common room," Carl, Liliah's replacement and the only one sober other than John, said. He shrugged when John gave him a questioning look. "I'm thirteen. I don't drink firewhiskey."

"Thank god for that then," John said wryly as he glared at his hungover teammates."

"Come off it, John," Bill sniped. "The first match is three days away."

"We've only practiced four times and we have two new members on the team!" John yelled, making the others wince at the volume of his voice. A part of John's mind warned him not to get too snippy with Bill. The other boy wasn't agreeable after the first seven hours of drinking. Bill was glaring at him already and cracking his knuckles in warning. John, however, stood his ground.

But Bill's eyes moved away from John's face and settled somewhere over his left shoulder. A sneer crossed his friend's face as he muttered, "No wonder you're off your rocker. Trying to impress your boyfriend, aren't you?"

"What?" John spun around. Sure enough, there was Sherlock, walking towards them. He hadn't seen much of Sherlock in the past few weeks which was why John could not help but smile at the sight of him.

Bill's eyes didn't miss this. "Just go," he spat. John shot him a glare but didn't say anything else after he dismissed them.

"Don't antagonize Murray any further," was the first thing that came out Sherlock's mouth when he came within hearing range.

"Huh? Wha—He started it!"

"You value your friendship with him though to tell you the truth I cannot understand why as his behaviour is similar to that of your sister's." Sherlock sniffed as if this was very irrelevant. John supposed that for Sherlock, it was. "He's been drinking away his sorrows. Your friend shows signs of infatuation towards a Miss Simms. Unfortunately for him, the object of his desire is seeing the Captain of the Quidditch team so he chose to drown himself in drink rather than come out clean and tell her about—Sherlock wrinkled his nose—his feelings."

John blinked. "Never took you for a gossip."

"I am not a gossip, John Watson," Sherlock snarled, "One cannot help but know the obvious.

"Anyway, Murray isn't important. I have a case and I need you to accompany me."

John felt guilty for the sudden rush of adrenaline, one he hadn't felt in weeks as Sherlock rarely talked to him about the cases he was handling. "Moriarty?" he asked and the whispers of _yes, yes, oh god yes_ did not die despite the rational part of his brain telling him that hoping it was the madman was a whole lot of not good. But Moriarty proved to be physically harmless to Sherlock and no one else had died yet. There was also John's need for a distraction from the stress of schoolwork and Quidditch practice. He needed a break.

Besides, he could afford to be selfish once in a while.

"Cancel your plans. We'll be out all night."

John had actually been asked to go to accompany his Divination partner, Jeanette, to Maddam Puddifoot's tonight. Jeanette was a pretty girl who was, maybe, a little bit too obsessed with him. She was fine, really, and had Sherlock not infiltrated John's life, John wouldn't have had any second thoughts about going out with her. But between braving whatever monstrosity Sherlock had in store for them, and being attacked by pink flowers and pink confetti and pink _everything_ , the latter paled in comparison to the first choice.

John left his broom in the shed then sped off after Sherlock. "Where are we going?" John asked when they were far enough from Hogwarts territory.

"The Cultural Centre of Magic," Sherlock answered readily.

"The museum's closed on Saturdays."

"Yes."

"We're breaking in a museum?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Do keep up, John." He rolled up his sleeve and asked John to do the same. A white patch was handed to him, one of those John had seen fall out of his pocket in The Leaky Cauldron. "Put that on," Sherlock ordered as he ripped and stuck one on his pale forearm.

John did the same. At the touch of his patch against his skin, John suddenly felt very strange. He didn't know how to explain it exactly but he felt a bit like a radio that had suddenly been covered with a thick fleece blanket.

"One of my inventions," Sherlock explained to him, "specially designed to momentarily block the Trace. I use it when I need to do additional research that my caretakers don't approve of."

"Is that why I couldn't locate you when we got back from the summer?"

A startled expression crossed Sherlock's face. "You can locate me?"

"Yeah…Not good?"

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, his lips pursed and his head tilted to one side. It was the I'm-deducing-you-right-now face and John always hated it when it was used on him. "Interesting," Sherlock murmured before he snapped back to the I'm-on-a-case-and-everything-else-is-dull face. "Have you ever done Side-Along Apparition before? Because that's how we'll be travelling."

"You can Apparate—I mean, yeah. Once to go to the Ministry with my dad."

"Come here then." Sherlock grabbed his arm and pressed him against his side and John was suddenly aware that he smelled of sweat and the knees of his trousers were muddied and here was Sherlock with his clean-boy smell and his pristine clothes. Sherlock shook him slightly to get his attention and John focused, reminded by his father's warnings of Splinching.

Remembering didn't stop the sensation from being unpleasant. John felt as if he were being pressed flat by a roller, his lungs fighting for air so that when the spinning finally stopped, he gasped and would have dropped to his knees had Sherlock not grabbed him. The other boy looked fine, amused even, and when John asked why he was smiling, Sherlock answered, "You didn't pay much attention. One of your shoes is missing."

One of his shoes was missing, the left. John mourned the loss of it as his sock-clad foot felt very exposed without his shoe. "That was expensive," he said sadly as he followed Sherlock to the entrance.

There was a guard there, a truly _incompetent_ guard according to Sherlock. The truly incompetent guard got one look at Sherlock and Sherlock did something that made the truly incompetent guard guide them in and treat Sherlock like a prince. John had absolutely no idea what Sherlock did to make people drool all over themselves. A part of him was curious while the other part screamed at him to run away if ever Sherlock decided to use his little trick on him.

John had been to the museum only once, a treat from his father during the days when he still had no idea that he was a wizard as well. John had marvelled at everything inside, had stopped and stared at the flying motorbike that had been Sirius Black for so long that his father had to drag him away from it. It wouldn't be like riding a broom at all, he mused as the three of them passed by the motorbike. He wondered what kinds of enchantments were protecting it. He could ask Sherlock…

No. Big no. Asking would only encourage Sherlock to steal it.

They went farther and entered a room where John had never been. The artefacts here were more impressive, more to do with wealth than fame. He paused at a display of jewelled eggs then turned around to ask Sherlock what they were looking for.

He regretted it immediately.

Sherlock had his arms wrapped around the man's waist and was staring at him beneath his eyelashes, whispering something John couldn't hear. The man was grinning at Sherlock like a shark, his fingers brushing against Sherlock's neck every now and then. John felt an urge to rip Sherlock away from him and punch the man until he bled oceans. The rage startled him and his mind was trying to bring him back to rationality but his body was having none of it. His hands were balled into fists, his nails biting in his palms and as he watched the pair all rational thought left him and he could only think _mine, mine let him go he's mine!_

What. The. Fuck?

The anger ebbed when Sherlock stepped away from the guard and rudely dismissed him. "What?" John stammered when Sherlock slipped back to his cold, cold self.

"Veela thing."

"It's just…I mean…thought those things, er, weren't…"

Sherlock scoffed at that. "I'm hardly a virgin, John."

Wait! Pause, rewind, _what?_

"Should I be offended by the shocked look on your face?" Sherlock drawled without looking back at him. John opened his mouth. "Do not ask. We're not here to discuss my sex life."

"Wasn't going to," John said a little too quickly for it to be believable. Still, John couldn't believe it. Sherlock had slept with someone and John hadn't yet. Sherlock who was antisocial and thought everyone besides himself was an idiot. It was like seeing a monkey on a unicycle.

But then Sherlock had that Veela thing which made him desirable to certain people. What did he do? Seduce someone he liked? But the thought of Sherlock being infatuated with someone was more unlikely than him having sex. Perhaps it was for experimental purposes. Yes, that seemed more likely—

"Stop thinking about me having sex."

"My thoughts aren't all about you, you arrogant bastard," John argued, again, a little too quickly. He cleared his thoughts then followed him to the back of the room.

"How come you don't have any Aurors with you?"

"They're still asking for permission to let me enter this room." Sherlock smirked. "Takes too long to process and you know how impatient I am. Moriarty sent me a text. I only have six hours to solve this and as I wasted time arguing in the Auror Office, I have less than three left."

"The hostage?"

"No photograph this time. Just a text of the time limit."

"And you brought me along because?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You needed a distraction."

You needed someone to call you brilliant, the nasty voice in John's mind supplied. His eyes widened and he cleared his thoughts quickly, hoping that Sherlock wasn't actually a mind reader as many suspected.

They stopped in front of a large tapestry with the words ' _En stirps nobilis et gens antiquissima Black'_ inscribed above. "It's a replica," Sherlock explained. "But as I've never paid attention to all that history about Potter and his affiliates, I do not know where to begin."

John stared at the tapestry before him with wonder. It was old and moth-eaten and smelled faintly of dust. But through the thick layer of grime, the names of those related to the Black family still managed to stand out. John read the names: Arcturus, Phineas, Dorea…

"Holmes?" He rounded on Sherlock. "You're related to the Burke family?"

Sherlock shrugged but John noticed the tension around his shoulders, contradicting the nonchalance of the gesture. "Ignore that and help me search for the mistake here," he muttered. "It's my grandfather's fault we don't have a copy of this tapestry in our home."

"I mean, I knew you were rich but this, this is amazing!"

"John."

"They're like pureblood royalty, aren't they?"

"John!"

John jumped at the furious note in his voice.

"You don't like it, do you?" John said quietly. "You don't like your heritage?"

"Obviously," Sherlock spat, "Money is one of the best seducers ever created. You should see how people fall to their knees when they see my brother. Mycroft uses it to his advantage to have power over most in the Ministry. It's disgusting how humans fall prey to the lure of galleons. You can be as irritating as you like and they'll still give you smiles, just so they can have a bit of your wealth."

" _And you brought me along because?"_

_Sherlock shrugged. "You needed a distraction."_

Lies, John realized. This was some sort of test to see if his attitude towards Sherlock would change. He felt his chest tighten a little. What had Sherlock experienced to be so suspicious of people? "Is this what you and Mycroft talked about when I left you in The Three Broomsticks?" he asked.

"No."

Too quickly.

John bit his lip then looked at his shoes. Well, shoe.

"I don't like you because you're rich, you know."

There wasn't an answer. John smiled a little. "Besides, all the money in the world can't hide the fact that you're a big-headed wanker."

There was a pause. And then Sherlock was laughing, his head thrown back as he lost himself. He looked so young, so un-Sherlock. John grinned at him.

"Oi!"

_Shit._

The truly incompetent guard had woken up from his trance and was now approaching them, his wand held out threateningly. "You kids ain't allowed here!" he growled.

"Hold him off for me," Sherlock said, barely glancing at the guard.

"What?"

"Hmm, I knew I should have kissed him to make the effect last longer."

John stared at him. "You should have _what_?"

But Sherlock was already lost in his Mind Palace (John really did not want to ask). John stared at his friend then at the oncoming guard, back-and-forth and back-and-forth until the options blurred into one.

He had absolutely no intention of landing in Azkaban.

" _Stupefy_!"

A beam of red light shot out of his wand and missed the guard by a few inches. Instead, it hit a glass case filled with 12th century manuscripts.

_I am dead._

The guard's mouth fell open at the sight of the manuscripts, now reduced to a pile of ashes. There was a squeak and John's eyes widened when he realized that it had come from him.

"You—you—you're in big trouble, young man!"

_So dead._

John was thankful that, despite his height, he was a fast runner. It was the only explanation to why he didn't get hit with any of the hexes the guard was sending his way. A few more glass cases exploded and John wondered whether they were really that dangerous, or the guard was just trying to get himself fired. The air was alive with the scent of smoke and burning artefacts and John's legs were beginning to get tired.

"Sherlock," he gasped, doubling over, managing to avoid another jet of red light just in time. The other boy was just standing there in front of the tapestry in his favoured thinking pose. "You done?"

"Almost."

"Can you hurry the fuck up then?"

John yelped as another blast hit them. " _Protego_!" he cried. The shield went up immediately and the hex rebounded and nearly hit the caster.

"Sherlock!"

"Be quiet, John! I'm thinking!"

If they got caught, they'd only find one of them. Because John was going to kill Sherlock after he was done with this.

Another blast. John grabbed Sherlock's arm and dragged him to the floor.

One corner of the tapestry burst into flames. "Jesus!" John hissed as he grabbed Sherlock and moved him behind a statue of Emeric the Evil. "You okay?"

"Cigarette burns!" Sherlock cried, clapping his hands together.

"What?"

Sherlock grinned at him, his eyes shining brightly. "Cigarette burns, John," he said. "The names of the disowned were burned with a cigarette, not the end of the wand. See, magical burns tend to lean closer to red while in cigarette burns they—"

The guard was yelling murder again.

"Never mind that!" John grabbed him. "Disapparate! Disapparate us now!"

"We can't Disapparate in here. It's a museum."

"Get us out! I don't want to land in Azkaban!"

"You won't." Sherlock was taking something out of his pocket and John knew that it was the signal to shut up, sit back, and pray to the heavens that whatever it was Sherlock had in there, it wasn't going to kill the both of them.

John didn't expect the darkness. It was the kind of darkness that brought out all the old childhood fears. John was not and never had been afraid of the dark, but he could excuse himself for feeling frightened right now. This darkness was unnatural and suffocating and it made John think of ghouls under his bed and monsters in his closet. He felt like he was five-years-old and he was entering a horror house with a too-enthusiastic Harry holding his hand.

It made him want to kill Sherlock even more.

"Lumos?" the guard was saying, a frightened note in his voice. "Lumos?"

His voice was close, probably only six feet away. John scuffled backwards as silently as he could, freezing when an arm snaked around his waist and a thin, warm hand pressed hard against his mouth.

"Don't panic," Sherlock whispered. "It's Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. I'm going to remove my hand from your mouth. Don't make a noise."

John, in retaliation, did the only rational thing and bit Sherlock's forefinger. Hard.

"That was uncalled for," Sherlock hissed. John's mouth tasted of soap and old cigarettes. It wasn't a good flavour.

"Your bloody fault," John whispered back. He couldn't make out anything in this darkness but he was all too aware of Sherlock's clean-boy scent.

"Lumos. Er, lumos?"

"Won't work," Sherlock informed him in his I'm-being-helpful voice. "You can only see through it with a Hand of Glory. The effect lasts for an hour, or so I was told. Well, it really depends on the dosage. I may have put too much."

"Hand of Glory now!"

"Shush. It's in my pocket. Somewhere."

"Here, let me—"

" _Ngh_ …"

John withdrew his hands and was suddenly very thankful for the darkness that masked his red face. "That wasn't the Hand of Glory," he said lamely.

"Ah, no."

"Er, I'll burn my hands later…I'll just wait for you to find it then."

"Found it." He heard something rustle. A hand found his and John was being tugged to his feet.

"I can't see a thing."

"Only the holder of the Hand of Glory can see anything. Come on."

It wasn't a smooth trip. John stumbled often and his shoeless foot managed to land on some broken glass. By the time they reached the lobby, John's foot was bleeding heavily. "You know," he said when they left the vicinity, "They're going to find my blood and see it as evidence."

"I'll make you an alibi." Sherlock had slid to the floor, his back against the brick wall behind them. John followed suit and stretched his legs out. "Besides," Sherlock muttered, "Mycroft might be able to sway them."

"Why didn't you just ask Mycroft to let you enter the museum without all that nonsense?"

"Imagine all the paper work Mycroft has to deal with."

He should be mad. He should be closing his hands around Sherlock's throat right now and wringing him like a rag doll. But instead he was laughing, so much that his lungs were beginning to protest. And Sherlock was smiling at him, that tight-lipped smile that John only saw when Sherlock was amused with him. He was mad. Merlin, he was just as insane as Sherlock. He'd killed someone already and he would rather infiltrate a museum and destroy about half a dozen national treasures than go on a date with a pretty girl.

His laughter died when he saw that Sherlock was leaning towards him. Something inside him flattened his gut when Sherlock placed a hand on his jaw, tilting his face upwards so that his eyes were meeting too-blue-to-be-normal eyes that were looking at him like he was something in a petri dish, waiting to be placed under a microscope. And in John's head, all he could think of was that Sherlock, male as he might be, was actually very attractive and that he had a girly mouth and those weird eyes and that smell that practically screamed hygiene. Looking at him, John thought of Lestrade and that stupid mistletoe kiss they'd shared last year. And he thought of how different Sherlock was from Lestrade and that maybe it wouldn't be so bad to lean a little bit closer and, well…

He wondered if the person Sherlock had slept with kissed him as well. It wasn't impossible. Bill didn't always kiss the girls he got off with. Who was it? Was it someone John knew? Was it someone in France?

He really should stop thinking about Sherlock and sex.

"Ow!"

Something warm trickled down the side of his face. "You moved," Sherlock said, accusingly, holding up a small piece of glass that had been stuck to his eyebrow moments ago.

John looked at it then at Sherlock who was already moving away. "I didn't."

"You did."

Sherlock was frowning.

"I'm sorry."

He looked kind of sad and John thought it weird that he was thinking of Sherlock Holmes being sad. But he did look like a little kid whose toys had been stolen, sitting there curled in on himself with one hand still holding the creepy-looking Hand of Glory. John stared at the blue-grey, hopefully-not-made-out-of-flesh Hand of Glory and said, "That's not a real hand, is it?"

"This? No, it's sadly made of wax. Carter had it in his office so I took it."

"Poor man." He looked at Sherlock who was now stuffing the Hand in his pocket. "So can we go now?"

A hand slipped in his, warm and slightly calloused. And as the uncomfortable, crushing sensation of Disapparating fell on him, John realized that Sherlock wasn't wearing any gloves.


	10. Flight of the Patronuses

Moriarty's last activity was three months, two weeks, five days, and approximately sixteen hours ago. To a sane man, this fact was relieving, a sign that meant the madman had finally stopped terrorizing the wizarding community and would hopefully leave them alone for the rest of their days.

Unfortunately, Sherlock Holmes was not a sane man.

With Moriarty out of the radar Sherlock became dreadfully bored. He had tried to go back to cold cases for a while but they didn't hold the same thrill as the madman's puzzles. John had, at first, felt the same boredom as Sherlock but as the end of term was coming closer and closer, he focused his time more on studying for their O.W.L.S. and was thus, less available for Sherlock to bother.

Before John, Sherlock had other ways of coping with boredom.

Making almost non-lethal experiments

Blasting the walls of his dorm room until one of his roommates tackled him to the ground

Composing

Solving cold cases

Coming up with more ways to annoy his older brother

None of them worked anymore.

He thought of annoying John to deal with his growing depression. An annoyed John was fascinating to behold—increased heart rate, red spots on his cheeks, hands clenching into fists, and eyes shining brightly as he said Sherlock's name in a murderous voice. There were many ways to annoy John. Burning his very atrocious jumpers, entering the Gryffindor Common Room to wake him up in the middle of the night, whisking him away from his friends without a real reason, interrupting his hideous dates with the most mundane girls Sherlock had ever laid eyes on, stealing his clothes (because as highly appalling those jumpers were, they were quite warm), reminding him of his short stature, and whenever Sherlock got himself into trouble. This last was when Sherlock had yet again deigned his deductive skills on someone who was trained in physical combat. John would patch him up and yell at him while he did so and Sherlock's heart, which normally beat sixty-seven times per minute, would quicken to his running heart rate of seventy-five beats at the feel of John's fingers against his skin.

The reason for this did not confuse Sherlock. He knew he was attracted to John in a sexual way, had known it the first time he saw John playing Quidditch, climbing off his broom with his hair mussed and the knees of his trousers streaked with dirt. It was the same feeling he got when Victor had touched him and told him he was beautiful. It was the same thing for all those who fell for his charms. Sherlock had felt those traitorous organs beneath their chests beat wildly against their ribcages, begging for him to claim them. He never did.

Touch was a stimulant to sexual arousal, Sherlock had learned. Victor had taught him how to improve, how to make others beg and do as he pleased. One touch in the right place would leave a person drooling after him.

What confused Sherlock, however, was that his heart rate increased even when John was not touching him. Even when John was not being particularly attractive, say when he fell asleep during breakfast and a thin line of drool was leaking from the corner of his mouth, or when he was about to sneeze on Mike's face, Sherlock still felt as if he were about to go to cardiac arrest.

It was something that begged to be analysed. But Sherlock had tried and failed to understand what was going on. He was not very good with understanding emotions as he had always thought of them as insubstantial things that could be channelled into Accidental Magic. Anger he knew well because that was what he often felt when he was bored. This, however, was uncharted territory.

He remembered what Mycroft had told him in The Three Broomsticks. Mycroft who had sat him down and told him that the only reason why John Watson was still in his company was to keep his magic in check.

" _I had Anthea do some additional research for me. It's like yin and yang. You're dark, he's light. Once you know each other, you can't be separated or else you, my volatile younger brother, will become horribly unstable."_

" _What do you mean now, Mycroft?"_

" _I'm saying I happen to like John as he's a good influence to you. However, I'm afraid you might not be for him. We both know that you're the stronger of the two."_

" _I'm never going to hurt John!"_

" _Like I said, Sherlock. You're very volatile. You tend to snap."_

Mycroft, the fat sod, had thought that Sherlock might actually _hurt_ John. It was impossible, idiotic! He never lost control when John was around and it wasn't just because of their wands. Sherlock was positive that even if there was a magical connection, if the person he shared it with was boring and stupid, it would not be enough. But John was far from boring and clever in his own way. He distracted Sherlock from all the annoying things around them. He didn't care that Sherlock did his experiments and he didn't even mind that his wardrobe was diminishing by the second thanks to Sherlock's pyromania. As if he would actually remove something that proved to be invaluable in so many ways from his life!

Perhaps Sherlock would go for the last thing on his coping-with-boredom list. But to annoy Mycroft, he would have to go to the Ministry, sneak into his brother's office, and destroy everything in sight. And he was out of Floo Powder.

Or he could just send him a text and tell him he was fat. That always got on Mycroft's nerves.

This was how John found him when he entered his dorm room: sprawled on John's bed in his favoured thinking pose with Bill's wizard's Kama Sutra in one hand, silently plotting his revenge on Mycroft. He was upside down in Sherlock's view because his head was hanging over the edge of the bed, and even though he did not see John the right side up, Sherlock still felt the now familiar _thud-thud-thud_ of his cardiac muscle.

This, Sherlock thought, should be added to his list of things that annoyed _him._

"The password's Alihotsy Draught," Sherlock said as he rolled onto his belly, "a potion created by extracting the juice from the leaves of the Alihotsy tree. It causes hysteria and uncontrollable laughter when ingested. Effects are mild when the leaves are smoked and are similar to that of gillyweed spliffs. To counter the effect of the Alihotsy Draught one must eat the honey produced by a Glumbuble, also known as the insect of melancholia."

"Good morning to you, too." John shoved him aside to make room for himself. There was an ink stain on the corner of his mouth (library, studied wand movements for Transfiguration made noticeable by stiffness of left hand, chewed on quill while reading, John is orally-fixated) and he smelled of lilacs (studied with Sarah, boring, painfully pedestrian Sarah), biscuits (went to the kitchens with Mike), and deodorant (Lestrade's, meaning John roughhoused with him again).

"Stop sneaking in my room. People will talk."

"People do little else. And this isn't just your room. I have Bill's sexual book in my hand."

John reached for the flimsy thing, his fingers brushing against Sherlock's. Touch, Sherlock thought, stimulant. "You shouldn't go around touching Bill's stuff," John warned him. "This thing is full of nasty germs."

"Bored."

"Right."

Sherlock turned his head to look at John, eyes already heavy from lack of sleep. He could barely see the navy blue of his irises but that did not matter. The way his blond eyelashes framed the blue was absolutely fascinating. Sherlock could spend hours cataloguing John's eyes.

They opened once more to look at Sherlock as John rolled to his side. "My Patronus Charm is still a little wonky," John admitted. His breath smelled of tea and biscuits, a combination that was just so-very-English but still managed to be so-very-John. "It's a wolf, I think, but I don't think it's passable. It will be a miracle if I manage to scrape an E in Charms." He yawned, turned his head away so he wouldn't cast his breath on Sherlock. "You on the other hand will get one giant O for everything."

"You overestimate me at times. You must recall that I despise Care of Magical Creatures, and that while some plants are interesting for their venomous quality, I do not care for the others. As for Patronus Charms I have never been able to make a corporeal one."

John frowned. "That's not right. You're an expert in wandwork!"

"Patronus Charms require a positive emotion from the caster to be created." Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Apparently, imagining myself with heaps and heaps of murder cases is not enough. Nor is acquiring a whole corpse for my experiments."

"Can't imagine why."

They were silent for a while. John was staring at him; Sherlock was staring at the ceiling. But he was quite aware that he was currently the centre of John's attention. He was at the other end of the stick and Sherlock found, to his surprise, that he did not mind it too much.

"What's your happiest memory, Sherlock?"

Such a personal question but when had privacy ever mattered to him. There was him, five-years-old, being taught to ride a broom for the very first time by his father. There was his mother clapping her hands as he played the violin for her. There was the time Mycroft sneaked him out of their home so they could go to the Muggle world and enter a science museum.

But when Sherlock played these memories in his head, they would quickly be intercepted with newer ones. He'd see his father's neck being stabbed by a long, pale wand, blood slowly trickling out of the wound until the wand was pulled back and the blood flowed freely down his robes. He'd see his mother staring into space, barely even noticing him and calling him by his father's name when she did. He'd see Mycroft looming over him, telling him he was too young and too stupid and just a big danger to himself.

He thought of the first time Victor had kissed him and handed him a cigarette right after his father's coffin was lowered to the ground. He thought of Lestrade teasing him whenever he and his father stopped by, stopping himself when Sherlock's mother came into view.

And then he thought of John saving him from Sebastian and that last seemed right. No bad memory was associated with it and as for the bad times he'd had with John, Sherlock had managed to arrange his thoughts so that those were stored far away and would not be able to affect his perception of John.

John was safe. He was no crime scene but his presence was…comforting.

 _It would be so easy._ He could have John pining for him and begging for Sherlock to touch him, kiss him, fuck him, even. John wasn't resistant to him. He would be a bit of a challenge as he'd gotten to know Sherlock before Sherlock even developed this skill. But one touch and a few words spoken in John's ear and he'd be under Sherlock's spell. But after it, after the trance, John would hate him. John didn't like to be used and manipulated and if Sherlock took him here right now, there was no going back. John did not like Sherlock, not in that way, at least. John deserved someone safe and good.

Someone who wasn't Sherlock.

He knew it would satisfy him for a while but he doubted he'd be able to make a Patronus if the memory of sleeping with John was tampered with the memory of John yelling at him for using him.

Sherlock wasn't even sure if that was what he really wanted.

The door slammed open, interrupting Sherlock's thought process, and a breathless Carl Powers appeared. "John, Lestrade says we have a last minute practice. Do you—"

The Third Year cut himself short when he saw that Sherlock was sprawled beside John in his bed. "I wasn't interrupting anything, was I?" he asked, laughing nervously as his cheeks flushed with blood.

"Not what it looks like," John answered wearily.

"Yeah, right, sorry." Carl cleared his throat. "Anyway, Lestrade says to come down at once since we only have two hours before the Ravenclaws take over. You know how desperate he is since it's his last year and he'll bite our heads off if we don't win the Quidditch Cup."

"Fine." John sat up and slipped out of bed. "You coming, Sherlock?"

"I hate Quidditch."

"You love telling Lestrade he looks like a gawking chicken when he dives to make a save and you look like it's Christmas when you tell everyone about Sally's fondness for the male members of the opposing team by the state of her knees."

"True." But John would be too focused on playing and Sherlock would have to sit there and wait for him to finish. Waiting was boring. "But not today."

He went to Greenhouse 6 shortly after John left, being careful not to be spotted by any of the professors and the students who were actually concerned with the safety of their school. It was not a place where students were allowed but Sherlock had been there three times already. The locks and enchantments were challenging but not too difficult be removed.

The door was open when he got there.

He hadn't talked to Richard in weeks but the smaller boy beamed at him when he entered. "Professor Longbottom let me look," he explained, waving a permission slip at Sherlock, "He thinks I'm really good at Herbology."

He was splitting seeds with a scalpel, being extra careful so he wouldn't accidentally cut his finger and let the poisonous juice seep into his skin. "The Hospital Wing needs about a kilo of these," Rich continued. "Helps counter spider venom, I think."

"Of course."

"Spiders?" Rich wrinkled his nose then giggled. "They're not always awful."

"Yes," Sherlock muttered absent-mindedly. He did not, and never had, liked spiders. He remembered how his older cousin had collected a few from the garden in a jar and upended it over Sherlock's head. A mindless prank but it had made Sherlock steer clear away from arachnids.

"I'm smoking here," Sherlock said. It was a challenge and he fished out his cigarette to see how Rich would react. But the other boy merely smiled at him and asked if he could have one too.

Rich was fascinating, Sherlock thought. He was not boring, he was smart, and he wasn't put off by Sherlock's lack of manners.

But he was not John.

It was odd to see Rich smoking as he sliced seeds and extracted their juice in a bowl. The smaller boy babbled on about plants and venoms while Sherlock studied him. Rich had gotten his attention several months ago, though he was never interesting enough to talk to for a long period of time. He just seemed too…safe.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. "That John?" Rich asked. Smoke billowed his face like a scarf.

"How do you know it's John?"

"Just…well, you always hang around him."

"Hmm."

Lestrade's asking for you. Says you stole his Arithmancy book.

_Sent 28 May 4:28 PM_

We're finished with practice and he needs to study. N.E.W.T.S, remember?

_Sent 28 May 4:29 PM_

"He's your boyfriend?"

Sherlock looked up from his phone. "Sorry?"

"John, I mean," Rich said, blushing slightly. "Sorry to pry but, er…"

"No."

Blushing, pupils dilated, smiling. Conclusion: Rich was very attracted to him. The smile turned into a full grin. Further conclusion: Rich was going to ask him out to a date if he did not get out of this place in the next five minutes. "Good," he said. He cleared his throat. "That's, er, good."

His phone buzzed once more.

Sherlock Holmes, come here right now or I'm dragging you to Lestrade. Don't be an arse.

_Sent 28 May 4:31 PM_

"Leaving so soon?" Rich asked when he began to walk toward the door.

"Nothing much to do here, really."

"Ah." Rich smiled at him once more. There was something about that smile that was a little off but before Sherlock could figure out what made it so, it was gone. "See you later, then," he said, focused once more on the seeds in his hands. Sherlock stared at him for a moment before he strode out of the greenhouse, dropping his cigarette five meters away from the entrance.

 

* * *

 

The weather hadn't been agreeable for the past four days so it didn't come to John as a surprise that they would be playing the last game of the year under a bit of rain. It really was just a bit; you could barely even feel it. But from the way Lestrade had gone green it was as if there was a hurricane out there waiting to devour them.

"Relax, Captain," John told him, "We're not going to die out there."

Lestrade gave him a shaky smile. "You're laughing at me now, but wait until you're in my position, Watson. This is the last game and there are hundreds of people out there. Parents, alumni, hell, even talent scouts. I'm not planning to be a pro in Quidditch but it would be embarrassing to have them say the Gryffindor Keeper's got two left feet _in the air._ " Lestrade let out a nervous laugh that died quickly. John's smile faded. John's own dad was out there as well. "Last year. Merlin, I want to win that Quidditch Cup."

"We'll win." John did the last straps on his knee guard then got up to join the others. Carl, the youngest among them, was huddled in one corner and looked to be praying. Bill was trying to engage in a conversation with Sally but kept failing as she looked ready to snap at about anything. To John and the rest of the team, this was just another game, but this was Sally and Lestrade's last. Winning was everything.

"Freak, get out of here!" Sally yelled at the person who'd entered the locker room.

"Lovely to see you as well, Donovan," Sherlock retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. John gave them an apologetic look before he steered Sherlock aside.

"Explain yourself."

"I got bored. We shouldn't be required to attend this."

"I thought Shacklebolt was keeping an eye on you because you skipped the first game."

"He is. I told him I was just going to wish you good luck."

Sherlock tilted his head to one side. "I know you're going to do a fantastic job out there so should I still wish you good luck when we both know that I think wishing is irrelevant, words are wind, and that you are an above average player?"

John shrugged. "Depends on you."

"Hmm." Sherlock then began to rummage in his pockets. John thought it was another cigarette (he was seriously thinking of destroying every stick he found in Sherlock's possession; they reminded him too much of Harry) but it turned out to be his goggles. John must have left them in his hurry to get to the field.

He froze when Sherlock slipped it on for him. "You left this on your bedside table," he said. He was tapping his fingers lightly on John's temple, the tips ice cold against John's warm skin.

"Just kiss him already before we die from all the sexual tension!"

It was Patricia Fortescue, their outer Chaser. John quickly stepped away from Sherlock, his face turning beet red when he realized that all eyes were on them. The girls looked expectant, Sally was staring at them with disgust, Carl didn't seem to have noticed, Bill was laughing, while Lestrade was grinning at Sherlock.

"Red's a really good colour on you, John," Bill piped as they ran out the field, greeted by the roars of 'Gryffindor!' and 'Hufflepuff!' and the rain which had gotten a little worse by the time they left the locker room. John lifted his face to the fat drops of water, hoping it would cool down the burn he felt on his cheeks. Sherlock, it seemed, had placed an enchantment on his goggles so that his vision wasn't blurred by the rain. He tried to search for the Slytherin in the crowd but couldn't decide if he was seated with his House mates (hopefully not) or if Shacklebolt had placed him with the teachers to keep an eye on him.

Portia Simms smiled as she shook hands with Lestrade who looked at her blankly. Next to him, Bill fidgeted slightly and pointedly looked at anyone other than the Hufflepuff Quidditch Captain. "Mount your brooms!" Captain Greensburg yelled over the crowd. In his hand the Golden Snitch glistened and struggled within his fingers. John looked over his shoulder to grin at Carl encouragingly but their Seeker looked even worse than Lestrade.

Three.

Two.

One.

"And they're off!" Jules Weasley yelled, his voice drowning out the cheering crowd, "Hufflepuff in possession. Carmichael has the Quaffle, passes it to Hinson—Simms drops the Quaffle. One Bludger sent to the Hufflepuff Quidditch Captain by Gryffindor Beater Watson!"

"THREE C! THREE C!"

He was too far up for the Gryffindors to see him but he still flashed them a rude gesture with the hand not holding his bat. It was really like Harry to leave a bit of herself in Hogwarts. John wondered whether she had bothered to go to his game or not. The latter seemed more likely.

"John, I'm guarding Carl!" Bill yelled as he looked away from Portia's crumpled form. The captain of the opposing team was already stirring. "Rae can tell he's nervous. Cover for me?"

"Sure!"

Hefting his bat over his shoulder, John dipped his broom and dived lower, doing his best to avoid opponents and fellow team members. The Quaffle whizzed past his ear and was deftly caught by a Hufflepuff Chaser who failed to get it past Lestrade. One of his own teammates nearly crashed into him. There was no wind but the rain had gotten stronger, to the point that even with his goggles, it was getting harder and harder to know who was who. If this didn't let up in the next twenty minutes they'd have to call off the game.

A bolt of lightning streaked the dark sky, flashing them with a bright light that lasted long enough for John to spot Carl.

"Alright?" John asked, yelling to be heard over a roll of thunder.

But John could see that Carl was far from fine. The younger boy was gripping tightly onto his broom, his knuckles whiter than the rest of his skin. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, and when John reached out to touch him, he flinched and moved away so quickly that John didn't dare follow him.

"TIME OUT!"

John didn't waste any time mounting off his broom. He ran to where the Gryffindor team was huddled in a circle. "They're sixty points ahead already," Lestrade grumbled. He brushed back his wet silver hair with one hand and sighed angrily. "This weather's getting dangerous and none of us can afford a rematch.

"Carl." He turned to the Third Year who cringed. "I can see you from the goal posts. What the hell were you thinking out of achieving by just staying in one place?"

"I—"

"Come on, kid, don't flush all our training down the drain." Lestrade clapped him on the shoulder. It made Carl's knees buckles. John looked away and bit his lip hard, not trusting himself to not tell Lestrade off for making Carl feel uncomfortable. This was Quidditch and being rough on your team was expected. Lestrade had taught him all this already, and certainly Carl knew what he would get into when he'd joined.

The whistle signalled them to get back in the air. John joined with Bill once more and together they circled the area, checking to see if there were any Bludgers available for them to send to a member of the opposing team. John identified the tiny red blur as Carl and to his relief, their Seeker was now on the move.

"Ten points for Hufflepuff!"

 _Damn it._ John moved lower. Lestrade looked furious and had kicked a Quaffle away from the middle post with so much force that it covered over half the field when it sailed away. A Bludger made its way toward Sally but Bill was able to direct it to, surprisingly, Portia Simms.

Bill winced visibly when it hit his crush's shoulder. "Better luck next time," John teased, ignoring the dark looks Bill sent his way.

Great, he thought. He'd lost Carl again.

John dodged past players to see where Carl had gone off to. It did not take long for him to find him. Carl was reaching out, his legs pressed tightly around his broom to keep him from sliding off. John's eyes widened when he saw the fuzzy golden circle only five feet away from Carl's fingers.

_Just a little more!_

Carl reached out even more until finally the Snitch was caught in his palm.

"GRYFFINDOR WINS BY A HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-SIX POINTS!"

The roar was no longer caused by thunder but was coming from below them. Gryffindors were moving down the stands and were doing their best to crush the players who'd already dismounted. John waited a little for the hysteria to die down before he dropped to the ground, only to be gathered in Bill's arms.

"WE WON WE WON WE WON!" Bill yelled enthusiastically in his ear as he proceeded to squeezed John to his death.

"Sod off John, you idiot!" If Sally was trying to be angry, it was ruined by the huge grin on her face. "Let Lestrade have a go on him."

Lestrade—who was sobbing but John didn't dare point it out—was busy gathering players in his arms and kissing their faces. Bill let John go so Lestrade could plant a few wet kisses on his forehead as well.

"You!" Lestrade cried when he reached Carl. "Brilliant! So fucking brilliant!" He wrapped his arms around Carl but didn't let go of him. "So FUCKING brilliant!"

"Get the Quidditch Cup, kiddo," Lestrade told him as he stepped back. "Shacklebolt's waiting for you."

Together they clambered up the small stage in the centre of the field that Shacklebolt had made. Students from other houses were beginning to leave but the Gryffindors and some of the visitors stayed to watch them. John saw his father amongst the crowd. He waved at him then tried to fix the stupid grin that was surely on his face when he also caught sight of Sherlock, standing next to Mike, but he couldn't make it go away. It did not matter, though. Every single one of them was grinning stupidly…except Carl.

In fact the kid looked like he was on death row. He stumbled as he made his way to Shacklebolt, his face pale and his whole body trembling though it didn't look like it was because of the cold. If Shacklebolt noticed, John couldn't tell. He beamed at Carl as he lifted the shining Quidditch Cup off the pedestal. Carl took it in his hands but dropped it as soon as he received it, stepping back quickly as if he'd been burned.

The smiled dropped off Lestrade's face. "What the—"

" _Carpe Retractum_!"

Shrieks erupted when all of a sudden, thick ropes bound Carl's feet. He yelled as he was pulled upwards. John looked up just to see two people riding brooms thirty feet over them, one of whom was casting the spell on Carl.

Shacklebolt was the first to act. " _Stupefy_!"

But the spell was deflected by the other stranger. John couldn't hear the spell but the next thing he knew, the ground beneath him exploded and he was being thrown off his feet.

Pain shot through his shoulder. It felt as if his bones had been mashed to a pulp, his skin reduced to molten flesh. There was something _in_ there, something that had stabbed through layers of muscle and fat then bone. John didn't want to look at it. He was gasping, trying to surface from the waves of pain that were racking his body.

"John!"

His father was there, looking down at him worriedly. Someone was trying to lift him in a sitting position but they made the mistake of touching the piece of wood in his shoulder. It made him scream and cry then scream even more when the person accidentally dropped him.

The stage had been reduced to nothing but smoke and bits of wood. Shacklebolt was on the ground with a few members of his team, most of whom looked shaken but mostly uninjured. Lestrade was yelling and sending hex after hex at the kidnappers but others were stopping him, telling him that he might hit Carl. There was a deep gash on his forehead which was bleeding heavily so that half of his face was covered with blood.

"Follow them!" Shacklebolt yelled, gathering the Seventh Years and Sixth Years around them. They had dragged Carl in the Forbidden Forrest. John caught sight of shaken students casting the Patronus Charm. Different kinds of silver animals burst out of their wand tips and headed off to the Forrest, the students following close by.

"John, John!"

And now Sherlock was here, pulling off his goggles and holding his head carefully. His hands were shaking and he was looking at John with wide eyes.

"Carl…"

"What?"

John batted his hands away. "Carl…go to—go find him…"

"No!"

"Do it!"

John gritted his teeth and tried to fight off the school nurse who was trying to put him in a stretcher. His wand was in his right pocket, thankfully. He closed his eyes and did his best to ignore the pain. " _Expecto Patronum_! _"_

He couldn't tell if it was passable or not. Sherlock stared at him.

" _Please_."

The last thing he saw before he blacked out was Sherlock nodding his head before he ran to join the others.

 

* * *

 

The wolf lit the path for Sherlock, stopping to wait for him if his hair got caught in a few low branches or if he tripped over exposed roots. It was strange that John's Patronus was acting like _he_ was the one who'd cast it. Was it because of the bond? Or could the Patronus acknowledge that he was John's friend—

Oh god, John.

Sherlock clenched his fists and tried to get rid of the image of John lying there on the field with a long piece of wood from the ruined stage protruding from his shoulder. A few inches lower and it would have pierced John's lung! A little to the right and it would have pierced John's jugular.

"Fuck!"

Sherlock was panicking. Part of him desperately wanted to go forward and find out who had taken Carl Powers. The other part wanted him to abandon his search and rush to the Infirmary where they'd taken John. But John had made it clear that he wanted him to go after the others.

The wolf looked back at him with its silvery eyes and opened its mouth as if to whine. Sherlock took a deep breath then pushed himself off the tree he'd been leaning on. The Patronus would ward off the beasts lurking in the Forrest long enough but it wasn't really a good defence unless you were fighting Dementors and Lethifolds. At best, it would lead him to the other students.

There was a flash of silver to his right. The wolf's ears pricked up and so did Sherlock's. Slowly, it moved backwards until its tail was going right through Sherlock's shin.

There was a rustling of leaves. Then, a silver hawk burst into the clearing, followed by Lestrade.

"Sherlock, what are you doing here?" he hissed. "Sixth and Seventh Years only!"

"John wanted me to go."

The change was sudden. Lestrade's shoulders slumped and for a moment he looked older than his eighteen years. "We've got nothing." Half of his face was still a little red but the rain had managed to wash off the worst of the blood.

When Sherlock was brought to the rest of the group, he found that there wasn't nothing, but there wasn't much either. The rain had washed away most of the evidence. Sherlock was able to deduce that Carl had been dragged before he was fully lifted off the ground. "He fought back," Sherlock said as he stooped to where the trail had been cut off. The soft glow provided to him by John's Patronus was enough for him to see what must have been half of the nail on Carl's forefinger.

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to go to John when they finally left the Forrest. The Patronuses faded one by one, John's lingering long enough for it to brush its nose against Sherlock's hand, as if it were giving him affection. The rain had stopped by now but the gloom did not fade. No voices were heard as the students trudged back inside the castle and all conversation stopped when the younger years saw that they had arrived without Carl Powers with them.

But before Sherlock could even leave the Great Hall, Shacklbolt was there.

"I need to see John."

"In a minute."

"I need to see John _now_."

The headmaster ignored his protests and Sherlock found himself being dragged to Shacklebolt's office. "Phoenix," the headmaster told the stone gargoyle which immediately jumped back to reveal the spiral staircase that was quite familiar to Sherlock. "This will only take a while, Mr Holmes, I promise you."

The office was not empty and Sherlock did not expect it so. Seated in front of Shacklebolt's desk was a young woman with short red hair and a large, beefy man with a full beard. They stared at Shacklebolt hopefully. The headmaster shook his head.

"Do not fret, Mrs Powers, Sherlock can find your son for you."

"Mycroft."

His brother stepped away from a glass case then greeted Sherlock with a small smile. He was the only one in the room who wasn't thoroughly drenched. Sherlock could tell that he'd just arrived. Even his damnable black umbrella was bone dry.

"Him?" Mrs Powers cried, "He's a kid! How can he find my Carl!?"

"I assure you Mrs Powers this is my brother's field of expertise. You've heard the rumours, of course."

Mr Powers nodded and wrapped an arm around his distraught wife. "But surely," he said, his voice shaking slightly, "Surely, there's someone else? An Auror maybe? I don't doubt your brother is great at…at this. But this is my son we're talking about Mycroft."

"There are…reasons why only Sherlock can help you—"

"No."

Four pairs of eyes looked at him. Sherlock ignored the three and focused on Mycroft. His older brother was regarding him with amusement.

"I haven't agreed to anything."

But Mycroft only smiled. He cleared his throat. "Pray excuse us for a moment," he told them before he stepped out of the office with Sherlock.

"Before you say anything," he began, cutting off Sherlock, "I think we ought to pay John Watson a visit first."

Sherlock scowled at him. "John has nothing to do with your wanting to suck up to affluent members of the Ministry."

"No. But he has everything to do with you."

 

* * *

 

There were two more patients in the Infirmary besides John but it was clear that it was John who'd sustained the worst injuries. Sherlock pushed past Mycroft and pulled the curtains that kept John hidden from view.

He was sleeping, his face a mask of serenity caused by the different potions pulling him in a hopefully painless slumber. His left arm was in a sling, his shoulder heavily bandaged. There were small cuts on his face, most of them along his jaw. Sherlock reached out, his hand hovering over John's cheek.

"You can touch him, you know. It's not against the law."

Sherlock dropped his hand and glared at Mycroft. He hated this, hated how Mycroft could see how weak and vulnerable John was. Sherlock moved so that he was blocking Mycroft's view of John.

"You think it's Moriarty."

"Oh no, dear brother. I _know_ it's Moriarty."

"I had no new messages—"

"He sent it to me."

The paper was tiny, the kind you slipped in those Muggle cookies that told you your fortune. But instead of a prediction, the words _tell him I'm just as bored as he is_ were written in an untidy scrawl. That was it. Sherlock turned the paper over but there was nothing more.

"It was sent to me only a few hours before the Quidditch match." Mycroft leaned against his umbrella. "But why Carl?"

"Powers knew something." It had been quite obvious to Sherlock. He'd known it the moment he stepped foot in the locker room. "I think he anticipated this."

"Nosy kids not minding their own business I presume," Mycroft said with a pointed look at Sherlock. He ignored it. "I'm not the only one who wants you to find out where Carl Powers is. There are his parents, of course. There's Shacklebolt who's always been afraid of the Ministry, and seeing as how Carl is the Minister of Magic's own nephew, well, you can just imagine what's going on in his head right now. A poor, defenceless boy being kidnapped right under his nose. And there's John as well."

Sherlock glared at him. "What do you know about what John wants?"

"Quidditch players are frightfully loyal to each other, and while I'm not John Watson's, er, _friend_ , I do know that because of his caring nature he will want you to find Carl Powers.

"And you would do anything for John. Seeing as how you're so deeply in love with him—"

"I am not!"

Sherlock clamped his mouth shut then checked to see if John had woken. He stirred a little but didn't wake.

"Ah, and that little gesture didn't prove it?"

"I am not in love with John. This," he waved his hand, "is just a mutual attraction. Like with Victor."

Mycroft snorted. "I am quite aware of the 'friends with benefits' relationship you had last summer and it is far from what you have now with John. At first I thought it was just because of your wands but it's clear that it goes beyond that. You love him."

"I do not _love_ ,Mycroft."

"You're a coward, afraid that if you let yourself go you'll be enslaved by your emotions."

"Have you forgotten that I turn into a monster when I let myself go?" Sherlock growled.

"When you're angry and upset, you do become a bit of a handful. But you're never these things with John, are you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock said nothing.

"What are you frightened of Sherlock? That John only likes you because you're intellectually useful? That you're rich—oh, wait, no, we've already been able to prove that that's not true. Museum, remember?"

Sherlock looked away.

"Are you afraid that John might only like you because of your looks? Oh, wait. I get it." Mycroft paused and Sherlock hated the smug smile that crossed his face, "You're afraid that if he finds out about your capabilities as a wizard he'll think you're just as dangerous as people make out. You're afraid he might think you're a freak…"

"Shut it."

"And that you should be put down."

"Mycroft," Sherlock muttered, "Shut up."

Mycroft's eyes actually softened and Sherlock felt as if he were in another time, another place, and that the sleeping boy before him was the cold headstone marking his father's grave. "I was only testing you when I said those things in The Three Broomsticks. It's clear—you're more human with John than with anyone else."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "It's disgusting."

"Admitting defeat, then?"

"Never."

They stared at each other for a while. Then to Sherlock's relief, Mycroft cleared his throat and turned around. "Find him, Sherlock."

"I don't have a choice, do I?"

"You're only choice is to accept."

Sherlock didn't look back to check if Mycroft had already gone. He pulled up a chair, sat down, and rested his head on his arms folded over the mattress. There would again be no sleep tonight, only now, there was a good reason for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is where I stopped in ff.net. I thought of abandoning this more than once but I've gotten past that huge writer's block. You'll read the next chapter soon enough. Also, Sherlock is in love with John. But since he's not very familiar with that, he just keeps associating it with lust.


	11. A Quiet Revelation

The coffee was barely enough to keep his migraine at bay, but Hamish was determined to act like everything was okay for his son's sake. He would have stayed all night with John, but the Pomfrey sisters insisted that he stay away. His job also required him to be in his office. He'd had to do a lot of convincing just so he could sneak out. It was already afternoon when he returned to the Hogwarts' Infirmary, terribly exhausted and jittery at the same time. The half-empty Styrofoam cup was still clutched in his left hand, already gone ice cold. Just as he was about to drink it, a strange feeling overcame him. A strange feeling that was scented with jasmine shampoo.

"Sorry, darling. It's protocol," the nurse who'd cast a Cleansing Charm on him said. Hamish thought he should have been offended but he was aware that he looked like shit. He _felt_ like shit. So it was only logical that his physical appearance would reflect his sad, shitty emotions.

Hamish glanced at the row of beds where his son had been placed, only to get the shock of his life when he saw that John wasn't there. Instead, there were several students piled on the beds, all of whom were in various degrees of pain. One of the students—a Ravenclaw as could be seen from his uniform—had his face completely encased in bandages, leaving only two small holes to serve as air passage. Another had broken both of her legs and was out cold. Hamish knew that John wasn't the only one who'd been injured in the explosion, but he didn't think that so many had gotten hurt.

"We only got a few last night. We had no idea they'd have a horrible reaction to a few minor burns," the nurse explained. One of the students sat up and began to throw up in a bucket at the side of her bed. The nurse clicked her tongue then left Hamish to assist her.

"You looking for your boy?" another nurse asked, this one a friendlier version of the first. "We switched them. The newer ones are placed near the office. Your son's already up and about, although we did tell him to take it easy on his shoulder. It's the fault of that friend of his."

"Friend?" Hamish asked as the nurse led him to another row of beds at the far end of the Infirmary. There were fewer students here and all of them were awake and were talking to visitors. Most were students but he saw a few grim-faced parents like him. Hamish heard the name 'Powers' being passed around. His blood chilled and he sped past them, hoping no one would stop and try to talk to him about it.

He found his son sitting on the wide windowsill with a curly-haired boy who had his back to Hamish. John's arm was still in a sling but if his wound pained him he gave no sign of it. They were talking in hushed voices. John looked a bit worried but at the same time he seemed to be masking it, pretending to be braver. Hamish stood there for a while, not wanting to interrupt whatever it was the two were talking about. He didn't have to wait long, though. Soon enough, John glanced up and saw him.

"Dad!" he cried, grinning. He stood up but sat back down again when he winced. The curly-haired boy said something to him before turning to face Hamish.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, ignoring the boy for a moment. John meant to shrug but the movement pained him. He winced once more.

"The nurses say they won't keep me here for long. I'll have a scar but other than that I'm fine." John turned to his friend. "Oh, this is Sherlock, by the way. Sherlock Holmes. You've met his brother. He works in the Ministry."

" _Is_ the Ministry," Sherlock corrected. He looked nothing at all like his brother, but when he tilted his head slightly and fixed a steely gaze on Hamish, he saw that there was no mistaking their relationship. Hamish studied him as well. He didn't feel comfortable under the close scrutiny of Sherlock Holmes, but Hamish was positive it wasn't just the strange way Sherlock was looking at him. John had told him about Sherlock and while he wasn't entirely against their friendship, he was wary of them being this close. Sherlock was _dangerous_. John didn't know that, of course, or if he did then he wasn't aware of how volatile Sherlock could be. Hell, even they didn't know. Sherlock was a ticking bomb waiting to go off.

A scowl appeared on the boy's face, as if he'd just read Hamish's thoughts. Without saying anything else, he walked away from them. John rolled his eyes. "He's like that," he assured him, "so don't be offended."

"He's certainly not what I expected."

John's brow wrinkled in confusion. "You expected him to be like Mike and Bill?"

Realizing that John would have absolutely no idea that people in the Ministry knew about Sherlock and his…condition, Hamish quickly nodded. "I've seen glimpses of him," Hamish admitted. "He's always bothering Mycroft."

"That's Sherlock," John said. Hamish took note of the fondness in his voice. That was a little strange. Hamish certainly never talked about his guy friends in _that tone_.

"So about that shoulder of yours," Hamish said quickly to avoid the topic that was forming in his brain. John definitely didn't need to be asked about that, at least, not when he looked just as tired as Hamish. Sometime later perhaps, once Hamish was sure. He took the seat in the spot Sherlock had vacated. "That's not going to heal quickly, huh?"

John shook his head. "There was something about that explosion—the fire. It wasn't natural."

"It was a Curse, John. Fires caused by Curses are never normal."

John sighed and for a brief moment he looked older than his years. "They took Carl."

"The Powers boy?" Hamish mirrored John's expression. Carl Powers was the Minister of Magic's nephew. This, Hamish knew, was going to make not just Shacklebolt look bad, but Hogwarts as well. If Powers wasn't found, parents might begin to pull out their kids from school. It had happened before. Those were darker times, surely. But in the Wizarding World, caution was the first item in your survival kit.

"He's our Seeker. But it's not just that." John shook his head. "We were so focused on winning that we didn't realize—He's just a kid, Dad. He's scared out of his wits right now if he's still—" John stopped and neither he nor Hamish dared to continue the sentence.

Hamish clapped him on his good shoulder. "John, you've got to stop carrying the world on your shoulders. You're only fifteen. Leave the worrying to old people like me." He tried a smile which John returned weakly.

He couldn't stay long but John didn't mind. Hamish ruffled his hair fondly before he left the Infirmary. It was cold outside and the open windows only let in more of the wind. Hamish looked out in one of them. The clouds were dreary overhead. He could already feel raindrops against his skin.

"It will only get worse," a voice said from behind him.

Sitting cross-legged, balanced precariously on the ledge of the window opposite him was his son's friend, Sherlock. "That's dangerous," Hamish told him, doing his best to keep the surprise from showing up in his voice. It wouldn't be good if he yelled and startled Sherlock. "You might fall."

In response, Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. To Hamish's relief, he slid down the ledge. The wind stirred his hair but at least it was no longer threatening to make him fall.

"You're Ministry. You work under the Department of International Magic Co-Operation, division of International Magical Trading Standards Body. You know a lot about me, then."

"How did you—"

"You're not very rich," Sherlock said in a matter-of-fact tone. Hamish didn't take offence; he was only stating facts after all. "I saw your wariness when you saw me, though you did your best to hide it because of John. That department's one of the biggest because you handle international trading. However, the salary's not very good. You only label things, after all. I'm not supposed to be talked about but given the number of workers under that department, it's impossible to hide anything."

Hamish said nothing for a moment. Sherlock merely stared back at him calmly. "Amazing," he finally said. "I think I see what John was talking about in his letters."

For a brief moment, the uncaring expression on Sherlock's face waivered and gave way to surprise. He fixed it with a scowl. "I suppose this is the part where you tell me to stay away from John."

"What?"

"Oh, don't play dumb. You know how I am."

Hamish studied him. Under the weak light coming through the windows, he looked almost inhumanly pale. There were shadows under his eyes. His clothes were too loose and not even buttoned properly. It was true Sherlock Holmes was dangerous. He would always be dangerous, actually. But right now he was just a miserable kid, waiting for approval.

"No."

"No?" Sherlock sounded annoyed, as if Hamish had done something that offended him. All he'd done was surprise him a little. Perhaps Sherlock took offence at that.

"Look, I've worked with people who thought you—that you're—you're this little baby demon. Um, the Dark Lord's spawn or something like that. It doesn't help that you're Mycroft's brother, by the way, and he creeps us out. Embarrassing for an old man to be scared of a twenty-year-old but he's…different. And so are you."

Sherlock shifted his weight to his left foot and looked at him pointedly. It was as if he was telling Hamish to get to the point. Hamish ignored it. They were talking about his son and he was going to take his time.

"I love John. He's told you about my wife, yeah?"

"No. But I've deduced it."

"Right. Yes, well, you see why I'm so attached to him. And I know about what you can do. I've heard about your temper and how unstable you are—the people from the Department of Underage Magic practically _hate_ you. I must be crazy but I'm not going to stop you and John being friends. I don't think I can stop you, either. He's good for you and you're good for him. He doesn't trust people easily because of what happened with his mother, but you make him feel comfortable about himself. I just want to see my son happy."

Sherlock nodded. He looked like he was absorbing everything Hamish was saying, analysing his words.

"Just…just don't hurt him, alright? Emotionally and physically. I'm not sure what I can do to make your life a living hell if you do hurt him but—"

"I'm not an idiot," Sherlock snapped. "I'm not going to hurt him deliberately."

_Rude and annoying. Definitely Mycroft's little brother._

"Fine. I approve, alright? I approve of you two being…er, friends."

If Sherlock noticed the implication, he certainly didn't give it away. He bid a curt goodbye then stalked off before Hamish could respond. For a moment, he seemed nothing more than an ordinary student, but appearances could be deceiving. Hamish smiled grimly. John never had learned to stay away from danger.

* * *

Nine hours after the explosion, John woke up to Sherlock staring at him. It wasn't a very good way to wake up. Not only was it because of the burning pain in his shoulder, but it was also because John was quite aware that he didn't look good sleeping. Harry had taken enough pictures of him for John to be sure of it.

"You sleep with your mouth open," Sherlock pointed out. "It's quite unattractive, John."

"Believe me, I'm aware." His voice was hoarse and the strange croaking noise that came out of his mouth made him aware of how parched he was. Sherlock rolled his eyes then thrust a cup of pumpkin juice in front of him. It was sweet and it burned his throat a little but it was better than nothing.

"What time is it?" he asked as he set the cup down. His bedside table was ridden with all sorts of sweets and funny-looking cards that John didn't trust himself with. One card featured an ugly frog with squinty eyes. Beneath it, written in bold letters was Bill's name. No, John decided. He was definitely not opening that one.

"Five in the morning."

"Five?" John reached for the curtains with his good hand and drew them back slightly. The Infirmary was dimly lit. He could see another bed-ridden student. He had his back to them but it was obvious from his slow and steady breathing that he was still fast asleep. A chair had been placed at his bedside but there was no occupant. John let the curtains fall. "Aren't visiting hours over?"

"I'm not a visitor," Sherlock replied. "I'm a student. I belong here."

"You're not injured." John's face changed from annoyed to worried. "You aren't, right?"

"I'm perfectly fine. The Infirmary is part of the school and I'm enrolled here, therefore, I have every right to stay here."

"Did you find Carl?" he asked quickly before Sherlock could elaborate.

Sherlock said nothing. John didn't need words, anyway. If Sherlock had found him, then he would immediately tell John how he'd done it. Failure silenced Sherlock Holmes. There were times when John secretly relished Sherlock failing, something he always felt guilty about. But now wasn't one of those times. He sat back carefully and waited until Sherlock was ready to speak again. What he said was not something John expected at all.

"Why are you so concerned?"

John blinked. "Sorry?"

"About him, about Carl," Sherlock muttered. He looked irritated, as if John had done something unforgivable and was too stupid to even know that he'd done wrong. Perhaps he had done something offensive. Sherlock was glaring furiously at him. "He's just your Seeker."

"He's just—Sherlock, Carl isn't just the Gryffindor Seeker. I can't believe you're saying that he's only important because of his position in the team. Sherlock, you…you're—you're such an arse."

"I said nothing of the sort. You're making things up."

John glared back at him. "I can read the subtext," he said testily.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Can you?"

It sounded like a challenge, but John wasn't able to understand what kind of challenge it was. The curtains suddenly flew open, startling both of them. The plumpest of the Pomfrey sisters, the mean one, glowered at them. "You two," she hissed, "keep your voices down. You especially, Mr Holmes, or I'll manhandle you back to the Slytherin Dungeons. I'm doing you a big favour by letting you stay here."

She parted the curtains even further. "And keep these open," she added. "I don't want any mischievous things happening in the Infirmary."

John's face burned. Even now, people were implying things. Sherlock muttered 'old cow' under his breath with such vehemence it made John's embarrassment disappear. He turned to him and gave him a smile. The smile, however, faded quickly when he got a good look at Sherlock's face. "Merlin, didn't you sleep at all? How many hours have you been up? You haven't slept in days."

"Seventy-two," Sherlock answered. His movements were twitchy, his skin an unhealthy shade similar to curdled milk. Bloodshot eyes stared at John wearily.

John shook his head. "I can't believe you've been up all night watching me sleep. That's a whole new level of creepy," he said jokingly. It fell a little flat.

"Oh, do stop being narcissistic, John, it doesn't suit you. I was _thinking_ ," Sherlock spat. He rubbed his eyes with a loosely closed fist. Even his hands were shaking. "Mycroft's in on this as well."

John wasn't surprised by that. Mycroft always got his nose in Sherlock's business, even the smallest things. And this was a major crime. "What do you mean exactly?"

A nurse passed by and gave them another look. Sherlock leaned closer and in a low voice said, "Moriarty contacted him." John's eyes widened. "It was just a scrap of paper telling Mycroft to tell me he's back. He was inactive for a while but he's playing again.

"He's clever, very clever. Powers was kidnapped for a reason. Take a rich man's kid and everyone goes in a frenzy. Take the relative of the leader of the country, the whole nation's thrown in pandemonium. Hogwarts is at stake, students will be pulled out of school. No, not just Hogwarts. People have become paranoid, will always be paranoid, in fact. As long as Potter and his crew are still alive and able to talk about what they'd experienced then people will never stop being afraid."

"But what does Moriarty want?"

"He wants to play a game with me, that's all. It's just a game for him. He doesn't need money. This is power play. And Powers knew something. If Moriarty's sole intention was to use him for ransom then he would have done it months ago.

"I'm the only one who can find him. There will be Aurors involved. They're needed to assure the masses that they're looking for him but they'll never find him."

"And how do you know that it has to be you?"

"Because Moriarty wants one thing and he won't stop until he gets it. Me."

John was surprised by how the thought infuriated him. It must have shown on his face because Sherlock rolled his eyes and added, "Not in that way."

It still didn't lessen the anger John felt. "And you're sure about that?" he asked, keeping his voice steady. Sherlock frowned at him.

"Why should you care?"

"Because." He faltered. Why did he care? "Because I don't want my best friend shacking up with a homicidal maniac," he finished lamely. It was the truth, but somehow it sounded like a huge lie. Sherlock didn't seem to believe it either.

The silence that followed gave the impression of lasting for an eternity. John hated silences like this. He seldom knew what to say next. How could anyone tell when you should even say anything? He sneaked a glance at Sherlock. But Sherlock wasn't looking at him anymore. His eyes were barely open. He looked like he was the one who should be lying in a hospital bed, not John.

"You should get some rest," he told him.

For once, Sherlock didn't argue. The poor sod was practically dead. Sherlock obediently closed his eyes. Soon enough, his breathing was even and he slumped forward, his head hanging so that John could only see a mass of curly hair. The curtains were still open and nurses were passing by, checking on the sleeping students.

In the end, John decided not to care. He pulled Sherlock down until his head was resting on the mattress. There were already rumours about their relationship flying, anyway, and there were bigger things to worry about.

* * *

"Really, John," Sherlock complained. "Your handwriting is truly atrocious."

John lowered _Astounding Magical Discoveries by Evgeny Hoffman_ and shot Sherlock a glare. Next to him, Sarah stifled a laugh. "Shut up," he muttered, keeping his voice low. He didn't dare call the attention of the prissy librarian. "It's not that bad. You have ink on your nose, by the way."

Sherlock rubbed at the spot without much thought. The ink only spread to his left cheek. "Stop that, you're making it worse," John chided. He pulled out a few crumpled tissues from his pocket. Sherlock kept rubbing at the spot. "Okay, stop, you're doing that on purpose. Just hold still and let me—"

He stopped, however, when he caught Bill's eye. His friends were staring at them, their brows raised questioningly. John quickly dropped the tissues on Sherlock's lap and scooted away. "It was annoying," he muttered, avoiding eye contact. He kept himself busy for a moment by adjusting his sling. His shoulder was mostly healed but the Pomfrey sisters told him to keep using the sling for a while to get a full recovery. John hated it as it always came loose, but right now it served as a good distraction.

Mike was more interested in the book Sherlock had in his hands. "That's for O.W.L.S, right? John's notes?" He leaned forward and was in the process of reading it when Sherlock suddenly closed the book. Mike yelped. He'd barely had time to keep his nose from getting smashed between the pages.

"None of your business," Sherlock said in a mockingly sweet voice, before he opened the book once more and continued reading. John shook his head and mouthed an apology to Mike. Still, it was a good thing Mike hadn't read that. Sherlock was reviewing the cases he'd written down, the ones about Moriarty, and was doing his best to see how they were linked. John and his friends, on the other hand, were studying for their O.W.L.S, which was fast approaching. They only had less than a week. Between O.W.L.S and the disappearance of Carl, John wondered how he was still functioning. He marvelled at how Sherlock was functioning. He had more on his mind than anyone else in Hogwarts, and he was the one who looked like he didn't need to ingest gallons of caffeine. But then, Sherlock didn't even have to study for his O.W.L.S. He already knew everything.

Sarah turned a page and yawned. "Holy Dumbledore, this is killing me," she groused. Her skinny boyfriend, Ethan, was fast asleep already, face pressed against the yellowing pages of a book about the magical architecture of Hogwarts. Bill nodded his assent. He was making paper airplanes now. He'd cast a charm on a few of them a while ago. Paper airplanes lazily flew overhead. Just watching them made John feel sleepy. He cleared his head and focused on what he was reading.

"We'll survive," John assured Sarah as she leaned against him. It was a perfectly friendly gesture so no one minded it. At least, that was what John thought. Suddenly, there was a sound like a page accidentally being ripped. John looked up from his book and saw Sherlock glaring at him. One of the handwritten pages was clutched in his hand. "What?"

"Shut up."

"I didn't even—Where are you going now?"

Sherlock slammed the book shut. Without looking at any of them, he stuffed several books in his bag, slung it over his shoulder, then haughtily stalked off. John couldn't believe it. "What's the matter with him?" he exclaimed.

"Sorry, John," Sarah said as she moved away from him. "I didn't know he was _that_ jealous."

"Jealous?" John stammered. "Why would he be jealous?"

They stared at him blankly. John repeated the question. "You know, it's alright, for Sherlock to be jealous," Mike finally said. He was talking slowly as if John was an animal that would bolt if he wasn't careful enough. He certainly felt like one right now. "Since you guys just got together and—"

"We're not together," John said quickly.

Another round of blank stares. "But Weasley said you guys kissed when, you know, you got injured," Bill informed him.

"Jules is a loudmouth. We're not together. And you were there, you pillock," he said, smacking Bill with a book for good measure.

They gave him unbelieving looks. All except for Bill who brightened. "So, I'm kind of getting past his whole rude thing," he said. "And since you're not together-together…you wouldn't mind it if I…you know. He is kind of hot."

"Piss off," John snarled. He picked up another book and hit Bill with it. Bill yelped loudly, causing the librarian to glare in their direction.

"Jealous," Bill muttered as he rubbed his shoulder.

John rolled his eyes. He didn't have time for this. In fact, he would have happily ignored them in favour of his studies if Sarah hadn't grabbed him and dragged him to the library's history section. She ignored his protests and firmly pushed him against the shelf with one hand.

"What?" John asked. "What did I do now?"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "John, are you really this oblivious?"

"About what?"

"About Sherlock!" she hissed.

John knit his brows in confusion. "What about him? The leaving? Is that it? Because he does that on a daily basis."

"Not the leaving, no." Sarah sighed. "It's the 'he's madly in love with you' part that you don't get."

John gaped at her. It was probably unattractive and if Sherlock was here, he wouldn't hesitate to tell John he looked like a fish out of water. Sarah didn't seem to mind. She stood there with her hands on her hips, waiting. John had to blink several times and clear his throat before he finally got anything out.

"He's not…" John faltered. "He's not, right? I mean, that's impossible. Sherlock doesn't do that."

Sarah looked surprised. "John, it's kind of mean to assume—"

"I'm not assuming that he doesn't feel anything," John retorted, feeling as if he needed to defend Sherlock's stoicism. He wasn't a machine. He acted like one sometimes, but he had emotions just like anyone. John knew that all too well. "It's just he told me he doesn't do relationships."

"So he doesn't know how to tell you then." John couldn't believe it. Sarah's eyes had gone all soft. It was as if he and Sherlock had been thrust into an idiotic rom-com and she was the one directing it. As if John's life wasn't strange enough already. "And there's you, of course."

"What about me, then?"

"You like him but you don't want to admit it."

"I'm not gay!" John cried. A First Year who had been looking through copies of _Hogwarts: A History_ yelped and dropped the book. Sarah shooed her away. "I'm not," John repeated in a calmer voice. "I like girls. I'm not attracted to guys."

"Sherlock's your exception." Sarah held up her hand, signalling John to keep quiet for a moment. "Look, maybe it's just him you like. John, you can't deny it. The way you look at each other, for instance. Even Bill thinks you're in love and all that boy thinks about is sex. Liking Sherlock doesn't make you any less of a man."

"I'm not—"

"Think about it, John."

John pursed his lips. "I'm pretty sure I would know if I was in love with someone, Sarah," he said firmly.

In the end, she finally dropped it. They returned to their tables. Ethan was already awake. His glasses were askew but no one bothered to mention it. He and Sarah started quizzing each other. John, on the other hand, had trouble concentrating. His thoughts kept returning to what Sarah had told him.

"I'm taking a break," he said after several minutes. "See you in the Common Room."

He didn't go to the Common Room, though. He wandered the castle for a while but that proved to be a mistake. It had been four days since Carl's disappearance. Everywhere John went he saw upset students. Several Third Years were even crying. The Gryffindor Common Room was even worse. A couple of Seventh Years had set up pictures of Carl on the mantelpiece. Every now and then John would find someone standing in front of the fireplace, crying their eyes out. John was sure he wasn't dead, but everyone else had already labelled Carl as a dead man.

Lestrade passed by, interrupting John's thoughts. The prefects were escorting the younger students to their Common Rooms. John waved at him half-heartedly. Lestrade said nothing. He smiled grimly then set off to work. It made John feel ill. It was as if he'd stepped inside the world's biggest funeral.

He went to the Owlery after seeing another group of weeping students. He knew Sherlock was there but it took some time to find him. He was again, perched on the ledge of an open window, his pet raven on his shoulder. The bird cawed at John.

"You know smoke is bad for birds," he said. Sherlock looked over his shoulder once the raven flew off. "And for your lungs."

"Hello," Sherlock greeted flatly. The book was in his left hand, the cigarette in his right. John wanted to toss the cigarette away but when he moved closer to Sherlock, the raven flew to his shoulder and cawed very loudly in his ear. Fucking hell bird.

John shooed the bird away, but not without getting the collar of his shirt torn. "I think I know why Poe went mad," John muttered. The bird stared him down with a beady eye before swallowing the scrap of cloth it had stolen from John. That was unnatural.

"No news from Moriarty then?" John asked in a fake, cheery tone. What was wrong with him? Carl had been kidnapped and here he was, talking about it like it was something good. He mentally slapped himself.

Sherlock grumbled a 'no'. "He's waiting for something," Sherlock muttered. "I don't know _what_." Furious, Sherlock threw the cigarette down with such force he nearly toppled along with it. John quickly grabbed him, cursing when he realized he'd used his bad shoulder again. The pain was dull but still present. It was just enough to make John grit his teeth.

"I'm fine," he assured Sherlock who'd stepped closer. The raven cawed again. Sherlock harshly told it to shut up. To John's surprise, it did.

"Hey," he said.

Sherlock frowned. "What?"

"Nothing. You said 'hello'. Didn't say it back."

Sherlock smiled at that. It was his real smile, the one he rarely showed. John couldn't look away. Bill was right. Sherlock was bloody gorgeous. Hell, John had known that ages ago, back when he saw Sherlock in the train station a year ago with Mycroft. There was a black feather stuck in his hair and the ink smudge was still there but he looked…

He looked like someone who couldn't possibly be paired with John. Ever.

Sarah couldn't be right. Sherlock in love with him? It was ridiculous. Him being in love with Sherlock, though. That was something John was still confused about. He loved him, of course. In a platonic way? He certainly cared about his emotional and physical health and he was always there when Sherlock needed him. He hated it when the idiot got hurt, and absolutely despised anyone who'd dared hurt him.

And he also hated it whenever someone flirted with him.

Oh god, John was an idiot.

Everyone knew before him. Bill, Mike, Sarah, even Mycroft. And his dad. Even his old man knew. John should have paid closer attention to himself. The jealousy, the possessiveness, the anxiety he felt whenever Sherlock was hurt or in a particularly bad mood. Sarah was right. He wasn't gay. He wasn't attracted to guys, but Sherlock…Sherlock was different.

He liked it the sound of Sherlock's laughter, liked the way he talked so fast you had to pay a lot of attention just to understand what he was saying. He liked the way Sherlock said his name, even liked it when he whined about something in the most childish way ever.

Bugger.

"You don't look very well, John," Sherlock told him, reminding John that _Sherlock_ was standing in front of him, able to read his thoughts through his facial expressions. "Is your shoulder bothering you?"

"What? No, I'm fine." He refused to look at him. "I, uh, just have some things to think about."

"Can't be much," Sherlock teased.

John considered walking away. He considered learning how to suppress his feelings. A part of him was still telling him that he wasn't gay, but it quieted down when his eyes met Sherlock's. He thought of leaning forward, of closing the gap between them, of _kissing_ him. The image didn't disgust him. He wanted to do it, in fact. He'd wanted to do it for weeks and it was only now that he was realizing it.

Sherlock was no longer amused. He was looking at John so intensely it nearly hurt to look at him. John would have looked away but he couldn't. "What are you thinking about, John?" he asked, his voice soft. He settled his hands lightly on John's shoulder, rooting him to the spot. "What is it?"

Sherlock wasn't going to give him any time to sort this out. John could have stayed there forever with his mouth shut and Sherlock would still be standing in front of him, waiting for an answer. John could have done the rational thing and lied. But, without really thinking about it, he opened his mouth and told the truth.

"You." Sherlock blinked, surprised. "I was thinking about you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, just kiss already, John's father already gave his blessing (sort of). Sherlock, baby, you jealous bag of dicks. John, you tiny, sweet, bumbling idiot. Moriarty, man, just go away for a while and let these two have their moment. And Mycroft, piss off. Don't you dare do your creepy stalking thing.
> 
> Oh yes, one more thing because it may still be unclear to some of you. Some people from the Ministry know about Sherlock's problem (John's father, obviously). Since Carl Powers' parents are related to the Minister of Magic, they're aware of this as well, though Moriarty's name isn't mentioned to them. The rest of the populace just think Sherlock is weird. John and Lestrade have their suspicions that Sherlock's a strong wizard but not to the extent that he can possibly kill someone by accident (Moriarty, of course, knows all about Sherlock). Sherlock, I'm sorry for ruining your life here, but you're fun to play with.


End file.
